
Glass P^/ ^$2> 

Book ' ' F^S'd 

Copyright 1^^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE WOOING OF 
THE ROSE 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE 

1) 



Jgetogotfe 
THEPLATT & PECK CO. 




aGRti^Si 



/3 



,fc^5 






Copyright, 1911, by 
THE PLATT & PECK CO. 



©CI.A:^97539 



33 



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s 



SOMETHING more than the lilt of the strain, 
Something more than the touch of the lute; 

For the voice of the minstrel is vain, 
If the heart of the minstrel is mute. 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 

A WHITE rose bloomed in a garden close, 

On a tristful autumn day; 
Sad was the heart of the fair white rose 

As the summer slipped away. 

She had been wooed by the singing bird, 

The bee and the butterfly ; 
But never a cord of her heart was stirred. 

Till she heard the west wind sigh. 

She leaned on the trellis, fair and sweet, 
With the laughing leaves above, 

As he glided in with his noiseless feet 
And whispered his tales of love. 

A rollicking, restless rover, he. 
The waif of the salt-sea brine, 

And only a white, white rose was she, 
The last of her royal line. 

He kissed the lips of the rose in bloom. 

And alas, a-lack a-day ! 
She was despoiled of her rare perfume, 

For the wind will have its way. 

7 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



FOUR SCORE YEARS AND TEN 

FROM that far distant goal he seems to cast 

His patient eyes across the vanished years ; 

Life's turmoil, with its triumphs and its 
tears, 
Is now a part of that relentless past. 
The eager feet which erstwhile sped so fast. 

Urged ever onward by his hopes and fears, 
Have reached the utmost verge of life at last, 

Where that grim warder of the grave ap- 
pears. 
Firm in the faith that all is for the best, 
Like some spent toiler he would take his rest. 

For good or ill his little work is done; 
Far from the silver radiance of the dawn, 
The fervid heat and flame of noon are gone; 

He only waits the setting of the sun. 



8 



AND OTHER POEMS 



CALIFORNIA 

IN all methinks I see the counterpart 

Of Italy, without her dower of art. 

We have the lordly Alps, the fir-fringed hills, 

The green and golden valleys veined with rills, 

A dead Vesuvius with its smoldering fire, 

A tawny Tiber sweeping to the sea. 
Our seasons have the same superb attire, 

The sam_e redundant wealth of flower and 
tree. 
Upon our peaks the same imperial dyes, 

And day by day, serenely over all, 
The same successive months of smiling skies. 

Conceive a cross, a tower, a convent wall, 
A broken column and a fallen fane, 
A chain of crumbling arches down the plain 

A group of brown-faced children by a 
stream, 
A scarlet-skirted maiden standing near, 
A monk, a beggar, and a muleteer. 

And lo ! it is no longer now a dream. 
These are the Alps, and there the Apennines ; 

The fertile plains of Lombardy between; 
Beyond Val d'Arno with its flocks and vines, 
These granite crags are gray monastic shrines 

9 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



V=r^il*?-^=rr^ 



Perched on the cliffs like old dismantled forts ; 

And far to seaward can be dimly seen 
The marble splendor of Venetian courts ; 
While one can all but hear the mournful j. 

rhythmic beat II 

Of white-lipped waves along the sea-paved 
street. 

O childless mother of dead empires, we, 
The latest bom of all the western lands. 
In fancied kinship stretch our infant hands 

Across the intervening seas to thee. 
Thine the immortal twilight, ours the dawn. 

Yet we shall have our names to canonize, 

Our past to haunt us with its solemn eyes, 
Our ruins, when this restless age is gone. 



10 



V ■ ■ - * ' x ^ " ' ^'^SU 



AND OTHER POEMS 



TYPES 

THE new and the old, 

The dross and the gold, 

The chaff and the wheat 

Commingle and meet 

Here, where the banners of sunset are furled 

On the rim of the world. 

New forms and new faces 

Confront the old races 

And challenge the scions of Saxon descent. 

Such a wonder to-day. 

On the crowded highway. 

Flashed on my sight for a moment and went. 

Like the Goddess of Dawn, 

With the step of a fawn, 

And lithe as a leopard, she passed, and was 

gone. 
Her sire is a Celt, and her mother was born 
Where the bountiful light of a Tuscan morn 
Falls on the billows of ripened corn. 
Es^cutcheons are nothing to her, although 
One ancestor fought under Caesar in Gaul, 
And another went down by the bastion-wall 
When Sidney, at Zutphen, was slain by the 

foe. 

11 




THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 

— - z^- 



Though her marvellous face, with its halo of 

hair, 
Is so hauntingly fair, 
There's a smouldering fire which flickers and 

flashes 
Beneath her lashes, 

And the ghost of an old Patrician disdain, 
Like the phantom of pain, 
Is lurking now *^ 

In the swell of her nostril and shade of her 

brow. 
In fine, 

There is pride and passion in every line. 
From her finger tips 
To the arch of her foot and the curve of her 

lips. 
Men have gone to their death for women like 

this, 
And counted it bliss. 

In the hush of her chamber, this very night. 
She will tell her beads in the chastened light, 
And pray to the Mother of God to keep 
Her soul in sleep. 
Ah me. 

Both saint and sinner is she— 
But who can tell what the end will be.^ 

12 



-— L,«_«.gejn n_u.i» i. 



AND OTHER POEMS 



DON JUAN 

DON JUAN has ever the grand old air, 

As he greets me with courtly grace; 
Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair 

That halos his swarthy face; 
And he says, with a courtesy rare and fine, 

As he ushers me in at the door: 
"Panchita mia will bring us the wine, 

And the casa is yours, senor." 
His fourscore years have a tranquil cast, 

For Time has tempered his heart and hand; 
Though the seething tide of his blood ran fast 

When he ruled like a lord in the land. 
In the wild rodeo and mad stampede 

He rode, I am told. 

In the days of old 
With his brown vaqueros at headlong speed. 
From the Toro Peaks to the Carmel Pass 
His cattle fed on rich, wild grass ; 

And far to the west 

Where the sand-dunes rest 

On the rim of the heaving sea. 
From the Point of Pines to the river's mouth. 
From the Gabilan Hills to the bay on the 
south, 

IS 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



He held the land In fee. 

It was never the same 

When the Gringos came, 
With their lust of gold and their greed of gain ; 

And his humble cot 

With its garden plot 
Is all that is left of his wide domain. 
But he says, with a courtesy rare and fine, 

As he ushers me in at the door: 
"Panchita mia will bring us the wine. 

And the casa is yours, senor." 



14 



^^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A REVERIE 

I 

TURN back with me across the dim historic 

years, 
And pass the portals of the dark mysterious 
door, 
Where pale-faced Sorrow sits beside the cairn 

in tears ; 
Behold, the spectre of Imperial lust appears, 
Its fleshless hands are red with human gore. 

II 

Around this sombre silhouette softly plays 
The mellow lustre of Castilian days. 

On the long, low swell of the sleeping sea 
At anchor a galleon swings at her chain; 

On the strand a knight, on his bended knee — 
In the sovereign name of Catholic Spain — 

Unfurls a standard loyally. 

Scarred veterans of elder lands, 
Their banners red and red their hands, 
File rank on rank across the sands. 
So fair a sight was never seen, 

16 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Broad valleys bound in gold and green, 
While stately rivers sweep between. 

HI 

The pageant vanishes ; and in its place 
A band of friars, in procession, climb 
The consecrated hill, with solemn face, 

And plant the emblem of their faith sublime. 
Where now they kneel upon the roofless sod 
Anon in minster walls they worship God. 
Adown the summer silence I can hear 
The silver chime of bells ring sweet and clear ; 
I see the vaulted nave, the surpliced priest, 
The wine, the wafer, and the solemn feast, 
The altar and the silvern candlesticks. 
The carven Christ, the gilded crucifix. 
The cups of beaten gold for sacred rites. 
The smoking censor and the waxen lights. 
The sculptured saints, the dusky neophytes. 

IV 

Time slowly weaves the web of fate, 

Dynasties rise and fall; 
And surely, soon or late, 

Death comes to all. 

16 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Alike, beneath the sable pall, 

The monarch and the monk lie down. 
And so, his work of love and faith complete, 
We see the good man calmly meet 
The angel with the golden crown. 

And while, methinks, I hear their sweet re- 
frains 

On every ripple of the ambient air. 
The grass is growing in their fallen fanes. 

Their silver chimes no longer call to prayer. 



'Tis an o'er true tale in the young New World, 
Since that belted knight his banner unfurled, 
His cross in the air, his keel on the main. 
There's strife on the sea and toil on the plain, 
For the white man's blood is the red man's 
bane. 
Bronze statues of the mystic past, 
I mark your slowly wasting lines. 
Too crude in civic chains to last. 

For you no promised morrow shines ; 
Victims of lawlessness and lust. 
The end is certain, "dust to dust." 

17 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



VI 



The years glide onward with noiseless feet, 
And the mystical seasons wax and wane, 
Only prolonged by the summer's heat, 

Only defined by the winter's rain. 
Before me stretches a pastoral land. 

Where the patriarch pitches his tent by the 
rills ; 
His corn land and vine land on either hand, 
And his flocks and his herds on a hundred 
hills. 
When the hampers are filled with the fruit of 
the vine. 
And the sheaves of the reaper are garnered 
in, 
Red from the wine-press flow rivers of wine, 

And the feasts of the autumn begin. 
The young men laugh loud at their festive 
games, 
And the old men rejoice at the sight; 
While the dark-eyed daughters of dark- 
browed dames 
Sing plaintive songs in the dusk of the night- 



18 



AND OTHER POEMS 



O nights of rest, O days of ease, 
In this the Garden of Hesperides, 
Here life is one long summer day, 

A day that never reaches noon; 
Where smiling May is always May, 

And roses bloom from June to June. 



EL VAQUERO 

TINGED with the blood of Aztec lands, 
Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands, 
A coiled reata in his hands. 

Devoid of hope, devoid of fear, 

Half brigand, and half cavalier — 
This helot, with imperial grace. 
Wears ever on his tawny face 

A sad, defiant look of pain. 
Left by the fierce iconoclast, 
A living fragment of the past — 

Greek of the Greeks he must remain. 



19 



=w= 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



DAWN ON MOUNT TAMALPAIS 

A CLOUDLESS heaven is bending o'er us, 
The dawn is lighting the linn and lea; 

Island and headland and bay before us, 
And dim in the distance the heaving sea. 

The Farallon light is faintly flashing 
The birds are wheeling in fitful flocks, 

The coast-line brightens, the waves are dash- 
ing 
And tossing their spray on the Lobos rocks. 

The Heralds of morn in the east are glowing 
And boldly lifting the veil of night; 

Whitney and Shasta are bravely showing 
Their crowns of snow in the morning light. 

The town is stirring with faint commotion, 
In all its highways it throbs and thrills ; 

We greet you! Queen of the Western Ocean, 
As you wake to life on your hundred hills. 

The forts salute, and the flags are streaming 
From ships at anchor in cove and strait ; 

O'er the mountain tops, in splendor beaming. 
The sun looks down on the Golden Gate. 

9.0 



AND OTHER POEMS 



IN FIELDS NOT FAR AWAY 

AS I went down where grazing herds 
Had sought the sylvan shade, 

I caught the notes of nesting birds 
In all the leaf-lined glade. 

I walked knee-deep amid the bloom 
And fragrance born of Spring, 

While flush of spray and flash of plume 
Illumined wood and wing. 

Entranced with all I saw and heard, 

As home I fared elate, 
I hummed the very air the bird 

Was singing to his mate. 

Ah, could we hear, when meaner things 

Enthrall us day by day, 
The wondrous song the glad lark sings 

In fields not far away! 



gl 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



POINT BONITA 

THE foam-lines flash, the wind pipes free, 

The city looms in sight ; 
The clouds drift in across the lea. 
And on the gray strand beats the sea, 

Intoning day and night. 

No sunlight on the landscape lies, 

No song-birds flit and sing, 
But wild geese with their clanging cries 
Sweep on athwart the brooding skies, 

Like Nomads on the wing. 

Out on the links I stroll at ease, 

And there I watch and wait. 
As on and off* before the breeze 
The ships beat inward from the seas 

And pass the Golden Gate. 

Around Twin Peaks, above the town, 

The misty vapors creep ; 
And Russian Hill looks dimly down 
Where Alcatraz and Fort Point frown, 

Grim warders of the deep. 



^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 



And, looming up, Lone Mountain lifts 

Its cone against the sky, 
And softly through the broken rifts 
The sunlight for a moment sifts 

And gilds the cross on high. 

I hear the call, and counter-call. 

Of wild birds on the wing; 
While bud and bough are held in thrall, 
Till dark December lifts its pall 

And ushers in the spring. 

There is a charm in Earth's gray shroud. 

Its solemn undertone ; 
When sea and shore are sobbing loud, 
And tears are in the trailing cloud. 

And wind and wave make moan. 



£3 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



IN CALM AND STORM 

O SEA ! thou art so false and yet so fair ; 
Ere while, in summer silence, thou didst sleep, 
And, lazily, thy lapsing waves did creep 
Along the shining sands, while here and there 
A toying breath of soft autumnal air 

Dropped down to kiss and curl the drowsy 
deep. 
So like a tigress lurking in her lair — 
A serpent coiled to strike me unaware — 

For now thy marching waves in rhythmic 

sweep. 
Like white-plumed squadrons, charge the 
scarped steep. 
And reeling tempests rave and lightnings glare. 
O Sea ! a ghastly harvest thou dost reap, 

While waiting wives and mothers watch and 
weep, 
And yet thy lovers deem thee debonair. 



M 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE DERELICT 

UNMOORED, unmanned, unheeded on the 
deep, 
Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze. 
It drifts o'er sultry leagues of tropic seas 

Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep. 

When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep. 
From their far rhythmic spheres, the 

Pleiades, 
In calm beatitude and tranquil ease. 

Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep. 

Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails un- 
furled. 

We saw the stout ship breast the open main 
To round the Stormy Cape and span the world, 

In search of ventures which betoken gain. 
To-day, somewhere, on some far sea, we know 
Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro. 



25 



j5)>^»> 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



THE MUSE OF ROMANCE 

YOU are known, I believe, as a man about 
town; 
If you go as you ought to the Bas Bleu 
soiree 
You will meet Mrs. D. in a chic Paris gown ; 
She will chat, as she toys with her fan and 

bouquet, 
Of the lyrics, and lays of Mistral and 
Daudet, 
And will even repeat, suh rosa, perchance, 
The refrain of Gringoire with an accent 
Anglais, 
For the fad of the hour is 'che Muse of Ro- 
mance. 

You will doubtless encounter a stare and a 
frown 
From a prig who pretends to be wise and 
au fait; 
For the "Set" will insist you should know Mr. 
Brow^n, 
But the Lord knows who Brown is, I don't, 
nor do they, 



26 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Though his father made money In "Ophir," 
they say ; 
He's Sir Oracle now, you will see at a glance, 
And has written a double ballade, by the 
way. 
For the fad of the hour is the Muse of Ro- 
mance. 



As for me, give me rather the heath and the 
down. 
The glory of Autumn, the freshness of May, 
The bold mountain peak with its white-crested 
crown, 
The hiss of the squall and the flash of the 

spray ; 
A fig for the fustian of frill and of fray. 
The knight and the lady, the tilt and the 
dance. 
The gay cavalcade and the stately array. 
Though the fad of the hour is the Muse of Ro- 
mance. 

ENVOT 

Ho, Villon! you conjured the rhymes in your 
day, 

27 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



' Like a bold troubador and a gallant free- 
lance, 
But your ghost is disturbed and the devil's to 

pay, 

For the fad of the hour is the Muse of Ro- 
mance. 



WAITING 

I HEAR his footstep on the stair, 

My heart responds with quickened beat, 

As to my ear the sound-waves bear 
The eager accent of his feet. 

O heart ! my heart, canst thou gainsay 
The hope that echoes in his tread? 

He comes to woo and win to-day. 
To-morrow he may come to wed. 



m 



AND OTHER POEMS 



VIGNETTES 

I 

I HAVE somewhere the sketch of a cottage 
home, 

With the sunlight flooding the humble room ; 
While the south wind tosses the mottled foam 

Of the orchard boughs in their bloom. 

Under trailing roses a maiden stands, 
Demurely sweet in her simple guise; 

A quiet grace in her folded hands 
And a world of faith in her eyes. 

She dreams the dear dreams of youth and of 
hope. 
Of a knight who is coming from over the 
sea — 
Of a fairy castle on wooded slope, 
Of the lover that is to be. 

II 

With suitors in waiting on either hand, 

A proud dame watches the tide as it flows. 

Minerva in marble is not more grand 
Than is she in her cool repose. 

SO 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Her make-up, a marvel of pink and of pearl, 
Self-poised, she turns in her conscious 
grace — 

From the braided coils of her hair a curl 
Falls over the billows of lace. 

Or she sits at her ease and calmly smiles — 
Her lord has been dead for a year and a 
day- 
Weaving the web of her well-bred wiles 
In a nonchalant, listless way. 

ENVOY 

Time is a worker of wonders ; I knew 

Both the artless maid and the stately dame; 

And strange indeed, as it seems the two 
Were verily one and the same. 



30 



AND OTHER POEMS 



GUIDO 

I KNOW you are fair, 

But what do I care 

For the lustre of eyes 

And the ripple of hair. 

The earth is forlorn, and the heavens are lead ; 

Since under the arch of the pitiless skies, 

Guido, brave Guido, my brother, lies dead. 

Together we three. 

That is, Guido and I, 

And the mother who bore us. 

Lived in a cottage that looks on the sea; 

The mountains behind, and the glad waves 
before us. 

And over us ever the blue of the sky. 

We breasted the deep in the gray of the morn- 
ing, 

And mended our nets at the ebb of the tide ; 

And we laughed, 

And we chaffed, 

At the fond mother's warning, 

Who could not forget how our good father 
died. 

Thus peacefully speeded 

The seasons unheeded, 

31 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Till rumors were rife 

Of the roar of the battle and din of the strife ; 

There was call for the lovers of country to 

come, 
And Guido grew restless, I knew what it meant, 
He was life of my life, and together we went ; 
Oh ! her eyes were so dry and her lips were so 

dumb. 
As we marched away. 
At the break of day, 
To the blare of the trumpet, and beat of the 

drum. 
It was grand to rally for freedom and God ; 
But, oh the ruin, and oh the cost ; 
We conquered the foe, but the battle is lost. 
Since Guido, dear Guido, lies under the sod. 
The red lights flash forth from the red-tiled 

town. 
And the brazen tongues of the bells ring out. 
And the men and women go up and down, 
And meet us, 
And greet us, 
With cheer and shout; 

But a mother stands watching beside the door, 
While the spent waves moan on the shingl}' 

shore. 



32 



AND OTHER POEMS 



FLORENCE 

ENAMORED of thy beauty, I am here, 
To find thee robed in color everywhere ; 
Spring, with her garlands woven fresh and 
fair, 

Crowns thee with youth eternal, year by year. 

From out thy Campanile the bells ring clear, 
And round about Duomo's marble stair 
Thy careless children, gay and debonair, 

Make light of toil, with jocund laugh and jeer. 

Across the years I scan thy stormy past 

And mark thy dauntless stand against con- 
trol 
With Guelph and Ghibeline in fierce array. 
And though enthralled at times, by creed and 
cast, 
What deathless names are on thy blazoned 
scroll. 
While Art, triumphant, holds its tranquil 
sway. 



33 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



EL SALVADOR 

A CRESCENT bay, and crested peaks on high, 
With wooded flanks which seaward slope be- 
tween, 
Embossed with fold on fold of deathless 
green, 
And over all an arch of turquoise sky. 

Thus I recall, with half-regretful sigh. 

The sights and sounds of that exotic scene; 
Its wealth of tint and tone, its airs serene. 
Which erstwhile charmed my wistful ear and 

eye. 
A dreamy land of indolence and ease. 
With budding boughs and vines and fruitful 
trees, 
WTiere birds on gold and scarlet wings flash 
by; 
Beside a reed-thatched hut nude children play, 
While to and fro the palm trees idly sway. 
And spent waves swoon upon the shore and 
die. 



34< 



AND OTHER POEMS 



WHEN RICHARD LOVELACE CAME 
TO WOO 

THE feet of time make fast apace, 

And we, like players in a play. 
Strut up and down our little space, 

And act our parts as best we may; 
Alas ! Alack ! and well-a-day ! 

The stage is dight in sombre hue, 
Where once that stately vogue held sway. 

When Richard Lovelace came to woo. 

And much we marvel as we trace 

The feuds and foibles passed away ; 
While pomp of power and pride of place 

Troop down the years in grand array. 
In court and camp, in fete and fray, 

Fickle and flippant, staunch and true. 
Such were the gallants, bold and gay, 

When Richard Lovelace came to woo. 

In doublet fine and frills of lace. 
The lover sought his suit to pay ; 

With such a form and such a face. 
Who could resist his plea, I pray? 

35 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



il 



And then that tender roundelay, 

So like a wood-dove's plaintive coo, 

Sweet Lucy could not say him nay. 
When Richard Lovelace came to woo. 



ENVOY 



HO, Kentish Towers ! your lordly race 
Had swords to draw, and deeds to do, 

In that eventful Year of Grace, 

When Richard Lovelace came to woo. 



36 



AND OTHER POEMS 



SLY BO'PEEP 

SLY Bo-Peep ! behind a chair, 

1 catch a glimpse of tangled hair, 

And laughing eyes and dimpled cheek; 
Then comes a challenge, faint and weak, 
As if to lure me to thy lair. 

With loud pretense, I wonder where. 
Behind what door, upon what stair. 

And hear, when found, thy joyous shriek; 
O sly Bo-Peep ! 

In after years, grown passing fair, 
When hearts, perchance, are in the snare. 
Pray tell what games of "hide and seek" 
Wilt thou provoke in pet or pique. 
Until Love comes to find thee there? 
O sly Bo-Peep ! 



37 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



JEAN 

A WEE sma' sprite wi' dainty airs, 

Adown the garden goes ; 
Her een are like twa twinklin' stars, 

Her lips are like the rose. ' 

She lures us wi' a roguish beck, 

She wiles us wi' a ca', 
An' when we heed, she cranes her neck, 

Then hies herseP awa' 

We hear her tunefu' laughter trill. 

She dances doun the lawn, 
Her voice is like the ripplin' rill. 

Her footfa' like the fawn. 

May ye, sae winsome an' sae fair. 

In a' the years that pass, 
Na feel the blight o' cark an' care, 

My bonnie, bonnie lass. 



38 



AND OTHER POEMS 



TO AN OLD COPY OF SHAKESPEARE 

YOUR dog-eared leaves are dark with age, 

Your covers dull and dusty, 
And as I turn the time-worn page 

I catch an odor musty. 
Upon your imprint I would trace, 

Despite the blots in plenty, 
The printer's name, the year of grace — 

'Tis A. D. something, 'XX. 

Some Grub-street bookman brought you out, 

His name, it does not matter; 
We trust, if Parker, Blount or Stout, 

His pocket waxed the fatter. 
You seem to smack of London Town, / 

The Tavern in the City, 
Where rare Ben Jonson sat him down 

To converse wise and witty. / 

Were you ensconced in some sly nook 

Of box, or bag, or basket? 
Or kept you watch and ward, O book! 

Within the prompter's c'asket, 11 



S9 



( 

I 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



When Burbage mouthed Othello's rage 
And made Blackfriars thunder, 

When Lowin stormed across the stage 
With stalk and strut, I wonder? 

God wot it was a goodly play 

When lackeys were berating 
My Lady's chair that blocked the way, 

While rank and fame were waiting. 
Ah me, the days of Good Queen Bess, 

The days of famous writers, 
Of frills and stays and stilted dress. 

Of gallant fops and fighters. 

You t?onjure up a fruitful past, 

AlbeiVt fact or fable; 
The old-time Worthies in the cast, 

The Mas^.ter on my table. 
Across the wire a call is made 

And I respond instanter; 
The ghosts are laid, the visions fade, 

O tempora mut antur ! 



40\ 



AND OTHER POEMS 



PAX VOBISCUM 

WHEN the bells are ringing at Christmas- 
tide 

For the Crucified Son of Man, 
I think of the martyred souls that have died 

Since ever the world began. 

The men of a cause, the men of a creed, 

The men of the sword and pen. 
Who, with dauntless courage in word and deed, 

Have died for their fellow-men. 

When the battle was waged for cross or crown, 
They struck for God and the right ; 

And some at the scaffold or stake went down, 
And some in the stormy fight. 

Their blood may have sprinkled the senseless 
clod, 

Their dust on the winds be strown ; 
But the hero-soul is the soul of God, 

And ever He knows His own. 

Thus onward and upward the trend will be. 
Till we find the blameless way ; 

41 



r^ 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



In the fullness of time we yet may see 
The dawn of a perfect day. 

All hail ! and farewell to our Worthies then, 

On the far Plutonian shore, 
And peace and good-will to the Children of 
men 

Forever and evermore. 



THE HUMMING-BIRD 

IN gold, and green, and purple sheen. 
A winged meteor is seen. 
With sharp, prismatic flash of light 
It shoots athwart the startled sight ; 
Plays on the lilac's purple bloom 
With drone of wing and glint of plume ; 
Then on the calyx of the rose 
An emerald gleams, a ruby glows ; 
A moment here, a moment there, 
A moment poises in the air; 
And then, across the open space, 
The gem incarnate darts apace. 



42 



AND OTHER POEMS 



OFF CAPE ST. LUCAS 

WHEN summer seas are tranquil 
And summer skies aglow, 

Our trim yacht in the offing 
Rocks idly to and fro. 

But when the cloud-rack gathers, 

Our skipper looks alee. 
Hauls taut the weather-braces 

And seeks the open sea. 

He knows the hidden danger 
That lurks along the shore; 

He sees the foam-lines flashing 
And hears the breakers roar. 

Forewarned by cloud and spindrift, 
Ho Skipper ! staunch and true, 

In God and stars confiding. 
We sail the seas with you. 



43 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



SAN CARLOS 

ITS arches laid in the long ago, I! 

When the Mission Fathers came. 
With its towers above and nave below- — 

San Carlos of sacred fame. i 

They set their feet on the wave-worn strand, | 

With words of peace and good-will, 
And saw before them a goodly land 

Of valley and wooded hill. 

There were pink and purple peaks outlined 

Against the blue of the sky ; 
All months were May, and ever the wind 

On its velvet wings went by. 

With holy zeal, on the heights above, 

They reared these walls on the sward, 
Crowned with the emblem of faith and love — 

The cross of our Sovereign Lord. 

But faith and love were of small avail 

In the quest that was to be. 
With eager feet on the landward trail 

And full-blown sails on the sea. 



AND OTHER POEMS 



To that house not made with hands on high 
They have passed f or evermore ; 

The winds through the broken arches sigh, 
The ebb-tide moans on the shore. 

Where the Padre Serra knelt, a glow 

On the silent chancel falls ; 
And there in his crypt he sleeps below 

The rift in the ruined walls. 



UNANSWERED QUESTIONS 

WHEN in the eyes of my dumb friend I gaze — 
My faithful dog, his head upon my knee — 
A fixed and fond solicitude betrays 
The premonition of a devotee. 
'Tis then the haunting question I propound — 
A question asked, but never answered yet — 
Does that rare insight reach beyond the bound 
Where those who die forsake us and forget ? 
He might reveal the secret if he dare. 
And give the fateful answer which I seek, 
Of life before and after, whence and where, 
Alas ! God made him dumb, he cannot speak. 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



TO THE UNKNOWN GOD 

ALL hail to Thee, Force of the Forces ! 
The pulse of atomic vibration, 

The germ of conception and being. 
The impulse of matter and mind. 
Thine, Thine, are the infinite sources, 
A function of endless duration, 
The rythm of sound and of seeing, 
The soul of the soul of mankind. 

The myths of the centuries hoary, 
As told by the seers and the sages. 
Awaken a smile of derision 

At the faiths and the fables of yore. 
We question the stars, and their story. 
Proclaimed by the audible ages. 
Reveals to our wondering vision 
The past and its mystical lore. 

Thou, thou art the motive and motion, 
The Life and the Life Everlasting, 

Which thrills and pervades and possesses 
Each atom in limitless space. 



46 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Men pay Thee a form of devotion, 
With sacrifice, penance, and fasting, 
To solace the soul that transgresses. 
For thus saith the Gospel of Grace^ 

Uncompassed of time and location, 
Fulfilled of desire and endeavor. 
The soul finds its final fruition. 
Dismantled of flesh and its thrall. 
We pass from the stress of probation. 
To peace that endureth forever ; 

For death is not death but transition ; 
And Thou art the All and in All. 



47 



"K^' 



fi 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



MY ORIENT 

SPELL-BOUND beside the languid stream, 

Breathing the lotus balms, 
I lie amid the ferns and dream 

Of Oriental palms. 

Where now, with most ungainly strides, 

The lazy heron feeds, 
Methinks the sacred ibis hides 

Among the river reeds. 

The sunbeam's golden arrows fall 

About me in the grass ; 
I hear the midges' bugle-call 

To combat, as they pass. 

I see the emmets' pyramid, 

And watch their caravans. 
Like camels on the march amid 

Sahara's desert sands. 

One horseman dashes o'er the plain. 

One stands beside the gate ; 
Al Hassan seeks the camel train, 

While Mahmoud lies in wait. 

48 



^^- 



AND OTHER POEMS 



tl 



An aged sheik, with wrinkled brows, 

Sits in the evening sun, 
And gathers dates from oaken boughs, 

As I perhaps have done. 

The silent twilight hour draws near, 
The crescent gleams in air, 

And I, expectant, wait to hear 
Muezzin's call to prayer. 



THE HUNGRY HEART 

ABOU HARIRI— world renowned— 
Tells how a starving Arab found 
A diamond lying on the ground. 

"Oh, if this shining stone instead 
Were but a single date," he said, 
"A cruse of oil, a crust of bread." 

The rarest jewels of the mine 
Upon the heaving breast may shine, 
And yet the hungry heart will pine. 



49 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



ART ETERNAL 

WHAT marvels, wrought in tint and tone, 
The Master's fruitful hand hath told 

On frescoed nave and carven stone, 
Where "Hail the Victor" rang of old, 
When proud triumphal chariots rolled 

Along the far-famed Appian way. 

Now peasants mind the field and fold, 

While Art, eternal, holds its sway. 

The world a stage, from zone to zone. 

The mimic kings and queens have strolled. 

With laugh and jest and sigh and moan; 
Their words of fire are fierce and bold, 
Their words of scorn are calm and cold. 

Or light or tender, sad or gay. 
They turn their tinsel into gold, 

While Art, eternal, holds its sway. 

Strange airs, from Delphian slopes, are blown, 
Since erst the winged horse was foaled; 

Across the years the spell is thrown. 
And fast within our hearts we hold 



50 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A wealth no miser's hand hath doled ; 
The king, by grace of God, to-day 

May die and lie beneath the mould. 
While Art, eternal, holds its sway. 



ENVOY 



O fair-haired Goddess ! silver stoled. 

We dance in dreams with Faun and Fay, 

And pipe with Pan adown the wold, 
While Art, eternal, holds its sway. 



51 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



WHO KNOWS? 

CONFRONTED from within and from with- 
out 

By vague, uncertain questions that arise ; 
Condemned if only we presume to doubt 

The dogmatists whom mortals canonize. 

Must we without complaint, deceived, undone, 
Cold-eyed and calm, accept the cruel fate 

Which robs us of our treasures one by one 
And still unsated leaves us desolate? 

Must we conceal our motives from the world, 
And sacrifice our candor to our fears? 

And while the heart is crushed must lips be 
curled, 
A frozen sneer above a sea of tears? 

Must face and voice — by subtle sense or sight, 
Which we have somewhere seen or heard 
before — 
With strange perverseness haunt us day and 
night. 
The fabled skeleton behind the door? 



52 



'.^vj**^fil-r -ii^M ct-^- 



Jmmm%f^^m 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Prometheus-like, must we with hopeless sighs, 
Chained and dejected, pace the weary round, 

Seeking with hungered hearts and eager eyes 
The something longed for and yet never 
found ? 

Will no fruition come with calm repose 

When death rings down the curtain to the 
play? 
By His harmonious law and love^ — who knows? 
Perchance the problem may be solved some 
day. 



II 



53 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



THE ICEBERG 

LO ! on our weather bow there seems to be 
A spectral ship which gives no answering 

hail; 
Its stealthy presence makes the stoutest 
quail ; 
And as we reach to windward fast and free, 
We leave the floating phantom on our lee, 
To drift from zone to zone without avail. 
The toy of tossing tide and driving gale — 
A white-robed spectre on the wide, wide sea. 

High o'er the frozen bulwark flies the spray, 
And through the mist a shaft of sunlight 
streams ; 
Amid the ghostly shrouds the rainbows play. 
And all the frosted fretwork glints and 
gleams — 
Drift on to be dissolved, and then to rise 
Type of the soul that dies, and never dies. 



54 



AND OTHER POEMS 



SUTTER'S FORT 

I STOOD by the old fort's crumbling wall, 
On the eastern verge of the town ; 

The sun through clefts in the ruined hall 
Flecked with its light the rafters brown. 

And, sifting with gold the oaken floor, 
Seemed to burnish the place anew ; 

While out and in, through the half-closed 
door. 
Building their nests, the swallows flew. 

Charmed by the magic spell of the place, 
The present vanished, the past returned ; 

While rampart and fortress filled the space 
And yonder the Indian camp-fires burned. 

I heard the sentinel's measured tread, 

The challenge prompt, the quick reply ; 

I saw on the tower, above my head. 
The Mexican banner flaunt the sky. 

Around me were waifs from every clime, 
Blown by the fickle winds of chance; 



55 



■o 



X3> 



5@p=^ 



^^ \ 



S^ 





THE WOOING OF THE ROSE / 




Knights-errant, ready 
For any cause, to cc 



II 



ts-errant, ready at any time, 
any cause, to couch a lance. 

The staunch old captain, with courtly grace, 
Owner of countless leagues of land, 

Benignly governs the motley race, 
Dispensing favors with open hand. 

His long-horned herds on the wild oats feed. 
While brown vaqueros, with careless rein. 

Swinging reatas, at headlong speed 
Are dashing madly over the plain. 

Only a moment the vision came ; 

Where tower and rampart stood before, 
Where flushed the night with the camp's red 
flame. 

Dust and ashes and nothing more. 

Borne to my ear on the ambient air, 
Mingled with sounds of childish glee, 

I heard again the low hum of care. 
Like the restless moan of the sea. 



56 



AND OTHER POEMS 



EL RIO SACRAIVIENTO 

WHERE ice-clad summits greet the morn, 
And where the beetling crags look down 
On dark blue lakes with sullen frown, 
This bantling of the clouds is born. 
Forth from its granite cradle creeps. 
At first in play it laughs and leaps 
And then in dusky pools it sleeps. 
Down silent sunless glens it glides 
And under long sedge grasses hides. 
Where aspen leaves, like quivering wings. 
Quaver above its hidden springs. 

Anon, in silver-sheeted falls, 

It leaps the terraced mountain walls 

And tumbles into rocky urns, 

Beflecked with foam and fringed with ferns. 

At last this half -grown infant, fed 

By melting snow and falling rain. 

Like Bruin chafing with his chain. 

Growls hoarsely in its granite bed 

And ploughs its pathway to the plain. 

Meanwhile, by some designing will 

Harnessed and schooled, it turns the mill, 



57 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



And with its ponderous sledge unlocks 
The concrete coffers of the rocks. 

In middle summer, lank and lean, 
It creeps the shelving banks between ; 
And then, in spring and autumn tide. 
Crimson with carnage, flushed with pride, 
In serried ranks of gleaming pikes. 
It dashes on the yielding dikes 
And breaks the ramparts, rushing down 
Upon defenseless farm and town. 

In tamer moods content to hold, 
By croft and thorp, by field and fold, 
Past orchard boughs and bending grain. 
Past grazing herds and loaded wain. 
Past children laughing at their play, 
The devious tenor of its way. 

In ceaseless, silent sweep, between 
Low-lying meadows, rank and green, 
Along the marge of bastioned banks. 
Its dimpled face reflects the ranks 
Of gray-beard oaks ; its liquid kiss 
Thrills all the river reeds with bliss ; 



58 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The thirsty fibrils of the vine 
Reach down to quaff its amber wine ; 
The grasses and the willows lave 
Their tangled tresses in its wave. 
The silver thread has grown to be 
A molten avalanche set free. 
Its path the highway of the world, 
Where sails of commerce are unfurled. 
Emblem of Time's resistless tide 
On, and still on, its currents glide, 
Until, at length, far, far below 
It weds the sea with stately flow. 



59 



Q] 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



TO SIR HENRY IRVING 

(Read at a dinner given to Mr, Irving by 

the Bohemian Club, San Francisco, 

September 10, 1893.) 

IN this our realm, heart speaks to heart ; and 
here, 

Upon the utmost verge of western lands, 

With honest Saxon speech and cordial hands. 
We give you greeting hearty and sincere. ,. 

You touch the zenith in your wondrous role; f| 

We hear again the voice of that grand age 

When Avon's Bard unmasked the very soul 
And left its secrets on his deathless page. 

No narrow ties entrammel us, but we 
Hail him as Master who takes foremost part 
In the wide world of letters and of art. 

To that historic land beyond the sea, 
Where hawthorn hedges bloom and daisies blow, 
Our hearts and hopes go with you when you go. 



60 






xP '■ y^ 



it 





AND OTHER POEMS 



CON AMORe— CON DOLORE 

1872 1896 

I MIND me of that long-gone year, 
When stout Jo Tilden planned the cheer 

And Chismore wrote the clever verses ; 
We sat and hatched our quibbles queer, 
And Parker brought us pots of beer, 

If we had shekels in our purses. 

I see them in the waning lights, 
The frantic Barbour in his tights, 

And Beard, the grangers' friend and brother ; 
And Hawes, who made such valiant fights 
On voting days and tilting nights, 

Just now coquetting wdth another. 

And Clay and Caspar, Jack and John, ^ 
And Frank and Ned, and Will and Juan, 

And genial Clint, the would-be punster; 
And George, but more of him anon ; 
The Count, the Baron, and the Don, 

And Royal Dan the King of Munster. 

Still Doctor Behr's rare wit I hear, 
See Tommy Newcomb's smiling sneer, 

61 jj 



B > v w"' 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



And bold Smith Clark and Major Bender ; 
Cremony's grim, sardonic leer, 
Half brigand and half cavalier, 

And yet his heart was soft and tender. 

We have our lares in the hall, 
Our pictured Saints upon the wall, 

Our outward comforts and our inner ; 
There's John and Peter, James and Paul, 
And Jo, who is no Saint at all. 

But such a cool, delightful sinner. 



A would-be monk in gabardine — 
Charles Warren is his name, I ween — 

His "South Sea Idyls" has forsaken ; 
And dear Prince Hal, with courtly mien, 
A pair of demoiselles between. 

Is overmatched, or I'm mistaken. 

There's Captain Jim, we call him pere. 
As staunch and true as Legadare, 

For words of praise he would not thank me ; 
Our shelves speak louder than I dare, 
I hope with him one day to share 

That heaven where he will outrank me. 



62 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Lo, Uncle George, with face benign, 
As mellow as Falernian wine 

And sparkling as the widow Cliquot ; 
Long may we hear that voice of thine. 
As in the days of auld lang syne. 

Long life to thee, my old amigo. 

Ho youngsters, cease your rant and roar, 
The roll is being called once more, 

We mark the missing con dolore ; 
The dead outcount us by a score. 
The best, perhaps, have gone before ; 

"Lord love us," was our toast of yore, 
And thus we pledge you, con amore. 



63 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



DREYFUS 

YES, send the victim to his living death ; 

For thus, to glut your hate, the martyr dies. 
The world has watched the farce with bated 
breath, 

And baffled Justice hides her sightless eyes. 

Are you the sons of sires who scaled the height 
Of Saint Bernard when tempests raved and 
reeled. 

And bore your Eagles in the fiery fight 
When Desaix died upon Marengo's field .^^ 

Hushed is the echo of their battle-tramp. 

Hang up your father's rusted sword and 
lance ! 
Sound not the Marseillaise in field and camp ! 

The Sun of Austerlitz has set for France. 



64 



AND OTHER POEMS 



"PEACE BE WITH YOU" 

''PEACE be with you !" Where is there peace, 
I cry, 

And where can freedom find a safe retreat? 
In storm and strife one century goes by, 
Another comes with gory hands and feet. 

The Prince of Peace again is crucified, 

For Justice from her high estate is hurled ; 

The ancient metes and bounds are thrust aside 
By Caesars who would have and hold the 
world. 

The hosts go forth as in the days of Saul, 
And Gog and Magog gather for the fight; 

And lo ! the Celt, the Saxon and the Gaul 
Divide His raiment with the Muscovite. 

The Mongol hordes are on the march once more, 
Their Dragon banners flaunt the eastern 
sky; 

From Manchu battlements we hear the roar. 
And faint and far the Macedonian cry. 



65 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



"Vengeance is mine," He saith ; "I will repay." 
What He hath promised that will He per- 
form; 

And if, unmindful of His sovran sway. 

We sow the whirlwind, we shall reap the 

storm. 



THE BUTTERFLY 

SEE, where the tortuous torrent glides. 
Amid the leaves. a pansy hides. 
I stoop to pluck it there, 
And lo, it swings, 
On living wings, 
Above me in the air. 
Alas ! this oriental bloom 
Is but the pretense of perfume — 
A moth tricked out for masquerade. 
In gold and purple robes arrayed. 
A chrysalis would be a flower, 
And breaks its filmy thraUs ; 
Then on its flaunting wings it flies 
One little hour ; 
And when it dies 
An oscillating spangle falls. 

66 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE DEATH-WATCH 

YOUR measure of bliss was more than filled 
When you drank the wine of her lips; 

You reeled with delight while your pulses 
thrilled 
To the touch of her finger tips. 

Her form is so fine and her face so fair, 
And her voice so low when she speaks ; 

The hue of the primrose is on her hair 
And the tint of dawn on her cheeks. 

God gave her the face of a saint, and you 

Saw her only in saintly guise; 
'Tis barely a month since she vowed to be true, 

This woman with wonderful eyes. 

'Tis barely a month, but her vows are vain, 
And she meets you with cool repose ; 

Not a pulse of passion or pang of pain 
Do her wonderful eyes disclose. 



6T 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Your hope is a corpse, and with pallid brow 
You stand by the pall of the dead ; 

Only the death-watch is left to you now; 
So watch there with eyelids of lead. 



BEREFT 

A BIRD came down the wind one morn 

And nested in our tree ; 
That very day our babe was born, 

And then we numbered three. 

But when the summer slipped away, 

Our roses turned to rue ; 
The bird took wing one autumn day, 

And we are only two. 



68 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE GLOAMING 

THE West is in a blaze of gold ; 
The day in regal splendor dies, 
And silence falls on field and fold. 

While, in the East, I now behold 

The full-faced moon in glory rise. 
The West is in a blaze of gold. 

The darkness deepens in the wold, 

And soft the evening zephyr sighs, 
And silence falls on field and fold. 

As timid stars, grown overbold, 

Peep, one by one, from out the skies > 
The West is in a blaze of gold. 

The gowan nestles in the mould. 

The dewdrop on the heather lies, 
And silence falls on field and fold. 

The hearth is warm, the heath is cold, 
A wight, belated, homeward hies, 
The West is in a blaze of gold. 
And silence falls on field and fold. 

69 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



ANOTHER FOOL 

A FOOL there was, and he lost his soul, 
For his soul was steeped in sin ; 

His house of clay was a carnal house, 
And the Devil dwelt therein. 

He gave his life to folly and flesh, 

The lust of women and wine ; 
And lavished his substance here and there, 

Till he quenched the spark divine. 

The Sirens smiled and the wine-cups foamed 

When he ran his race, I ween ; 
And the Devil and he played dice, they say. 

For the fair and frail Faustine. 

He thought he knew, but he did not know, 

Until he had found it out. 
That a man in the toils of a sly Frou-frou 

Must ever remain in doubt. 

The sow to her wallowing in the mire. 

The rake to his rut, say I ; 
But the wage is death, and even the fool 

Will curse his folly and die. 

70 



AND OTHER FOEMS 



DRIFTING 

ACROSS San Pablo's heaving breast 

I see the home-Hghts gleam, 
As the sable garments of the night 

Drop down on vale and stream. 

The daylight on his royal couch 

In crimson glory dies, 
\Miile northward, on belated wing, 

The sad-voiced bittern flies. 

For miles — from where yon rounded hills 

Darken the southern sky — 
I hear the bells of browsing kine 

And catch the herder's cry. 

Just where the silver of the moon 
Falls on the shimmering tide, 

Marking that line of light, I see 
Twin islands side by side. 

Hard by, yon vessel from the seas 
Her cargo homeward brings. 

And soon, like sea-bird on her nest, 
Will sleep with folded wings. 

71 



i:r* 



THE WOOING OF THE HOSE 



The fisher's boat swings in the bay 
From yonder point below, 

While ours is drifting with the tide 
And rocking to and fro. 

Carelessly rocking to and fro, 
As shifts the fitful stream, 

Two Nimrods dreaming as we drift, 
And sketching as we dream. 



POOR LITTLE JO 

THEY say that Our Father in Heaven know 
best, 
But why is it so ! 
Dead at the dawn, and gone to her rest, 

Poor little Jo. 
Ours by the mandate of God, 

Gift of His infinite grace, 
All that is left of her under the sod, 

With the rain of our tears on her face. 
Uncover my heart if you must, 

While I utter the wail of my woe, 
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. 
Poor little Jo. 

72 



AND OTHER POEMS 



FORECAST 

LIKE the hand of a man is the cloud that I 
see, 
An omen of wrath in the blue of the sky ; 
The phantom appalls, and I ask, can it be 
The wraith of the storm ere the tempest 
sweeps by? 

We feast at the banquet and flaunt at the fete, 
While Lazarus waits for the crumbs as they 
fall; 
There's faction and feud in the councils of 
state, 
While honor and honesty go to the wall. 

Blasphemers of God, and the foes of mankind, 
With sword and with fagot would lay the 
land waste; 
Beware lest you wake from your slumbers to 
find 
Your hearthstones defiled and your altars 
defaced. 



73 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Think not that the plot of the spoiler is foiled, 
Think not that the thug will refrain from 
his crime; 
The tiger is crouched and the serpent is coiled, 
They are lying in wait and biding their 
time. 

These minions of Satan, these monsters of 
prey, 
Are they flesh of our flesh and bone of our 
bone ? 
For of such is the Kingdom of Hell, and they 
Are the dragon's teeth which our follies have 
sown. 



74 



AND OTHER POEMS 



SHAKESPEARE 

THE years, O Bard ! add lustre to thy name ; 

We hail thee, wonder of a wondrous age ; 

And when high art portrays thy peopled 
page, 
We see, as London saw, with loud acclaim, 
Macbeth take counsel of his haughty dame. 

The Hunchback storm across the mimic 
stage, 

The Moor, made mad with passion, vent his 
rage. 
And fat Jack FalstafF vaunt his deeds of shame. 
The men begotten in thy peerless brain 

Are types of hero, villain, braggart, fool ; 
Thy women, women to the very core. 
For thy rare counterpart we seek in vain ; 

Seer of no sect, and helot of no school, 
Reign thou in high Parnassus evermore. 



75 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



HAR-MA-KHU 



THE SPHINX 



TO hold eternal vigil o'er the place, 
By Ghiza's royal tomb it couchant lies 
Beneath the solemn arch of Egypt's skies — 

A nameless type of terror and of grace. 

The toil and torment of a patient race, 

Thou must have seen with fixed and stony 

eyes — 
Have heard their hapless moans, their help- 
less cries, 
With that same tranquil and impassive face. 

The seal of silence on thy lips is laid, 

The myths are dumb, tradition gropes in 
vain 
To solve the voiceless records of the dead ; 
And while the broken tablets fall and fade. 
Defied by thee, the ages wax and wane. 

And baffled Time goes by with noiseless 
tread. 



76 



AND OTHER POEMS 



MA PAUVRE PETITE 

THE lamps glow within, the storm raves with- 
out; 

I sit at mine ease in the softened light 
And think of Ginevra. She seemed so devout, 
I wonder if ever the shade of a doubt, 

Crossed the mind of her lord ere that night. 

I look at the bubbles that dance and swim 
On the amber wine like an elfin band, 

And I dream of the past, while my eyes grow 
dim 

As I carelessly kiss with my lips the rim 
Of the antique glass in my hand. 

A rustle of garments, a step in the hall. 

And my princess comes in her queenly grace ; 

The grim Rembrandt smiles in his frame on the 
wall 

When those fairy feet on the carpet fall 
As she takes by my side her place. 

I am dreaming, perchance, yet I know she is 
there ; 



77 



» l u ^ i ». »» ■■ l i J i. l / ^i 



!=SC 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



i 

On my forehead I feel for a moment her 
kiss ; 
A subtle something is in the air, 
An olive face with its dark brown hair — 

But 'tis folly to speak of all this. 

She chats in her charming, womanly way, 

And I listen, or seem to listen, the while; 
Somehow vaguely at length I hear her say, 
"A bit of romance, or the plot of a play. 
If only one blithe, bonny bird to beguile." 

A story you ask for? well, so let it be; 

Let me think — twenty years have gone by 
to a day. 
How swiftly the summers have flown since we, 
Two lads, in that quaint old town by the sea, 

Idled and trifled the summer away. 

We were scarcely nineteen — how the holidays 
flew, 
Two naval cadets, off* duty, on shore; 
We did, I suppose, just as most middies do. 
Squandered our pay in a mad lark or two, 
Then starved for a month to make up the 
score. 

78 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Tom was my hero — I thought him divine ; 

He's an admiral now — won his stars at Mo« 
bile; 
The veriest old sea-dog, they say, in the line — 
Washes his face every morning in brine 

And swears that he'll have on his coffin a 
keel. 

We lodged in an attic just off from the park — 

In a mocking mood we called it a den ; 
If I rightly remember, the square is St. Mark, 
Houses on either side dingy and dark; 

We would smile at it now — it suited us then. 

For a neighbor we had — it is strange, I de- 
clare, 

I can see him now in his singular guise — 
A French emigre, with his silver hair 
And his broken speech and port militaire. 

And his wan little girl with her hungry eyes. 

Once or twice only we met on the street, 

All further advances seemed somehow in 
vain; 
But morning and night we heard him repeat. 



79 



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THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



"]Ma pauvre petite, ma pauvre petite," 

Till our own hearts caught up the refrain. 

Said Tom, in his old, impetuous way, 

"Let's give them a sail in the yacht, my boy. 
For the wind is a trifle fresh to-day. 
And who knows, poor things, but a taste of 
salt spray 
Might change all their sorrow to joy." 

In less than an hour, with eight or ten more. 
We had them on board of our staunch little 
craft ; 
The sails were all set, we standing off shore, 
While the spray from the white-caps was flying 
before 
And the wind followed hard abaft. 

Just how it all happened we never could tell; 
The child leaned on the rail by her grand- 
papa's side ; 
Our weather-bow must have been caught by the 

swell. 
For there came a lurch and a cry, and she 
fell— 
And something white floated off on the tide. 

80 



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Tom had the helm ; in an instant he swung 
And brought her to in the eye of the gale ; 

Two men were over, one old and one young ; 

But young arms are lusty, not likely to fail — 
And how does my blithe, bonny bird like the 
tale? 

What ! You wish to hear more of the old 
emigre ? 
Not satisfied yet? it seems incomplete? 
Well, look in my eyes. Don't you see, chere 

amie, 
I, I was the lad who leaped into the sea, 
And you, you were "ma pauvre petite." 



n 



^\- 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



LADY JANE 

AN ower true tale I fain would tell 

Of Scottish border strife. 
And how an English Earl did win 

A Scottish maid for wife. 

He was the Lord of Widdrington, 
Her kinsmen were his foes, 

And she was Eraser's lovely lass, 
A bonny heather rose. 

On Cheviot's flank his Lordship's troop 

Had met the Eraser clan. 
Were scattered in the headlong charge, 

And routed horse and man. 

And lost and lorn, and wounded sore, 

A hunted stag at bay, 
But for a maid who succored him, 

The Earl had died that day. 

She hid him in the rustling corn 
And gave him food and rest, 

The while her baffled kinsmen sped 
Upon their bootless quest. 

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And in the gloaming, o'er the hills 

She led him safe and sound, 
Until he reached the border side 

And trod on English ground. 

Long raged the fierce and bloody feud, 

Which rent the land in twain, 
And many a lady mourned her lord, 

And many a lass her swain. 

Until one mom from Teviotdale 

The word came down the glen 
That all was lost and Widdrington 

Held Eraser and his men. 

Woe fell on matron and on maid, 

But Janet sped away; j 

High o'er the Scottish hills she hied j 

To where the English lay. ' 

She bade them lead her where their Chief 

Stood with his kinsmen near, jj 

And though her heart beat fast the while, 

Her voice was calm and clear. 



83 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



"I am a Eraser's lass, my Lord, 
Your grace I crave," she said; 

Earl Widdrington made answer thus, 
And bared his stately head : 

"Your Chieftain's life is safe, my lass, 

His fetters I will break. 
And let the men of Eraser's clan 

Go hence for your dear sake. 

"You proved a steadfast friend to me 

When I was sore beset, 
I loved you then with all my heart, 

I love you, lassie, yet. 

"And here in presence of my kin, 
That all may understand, 

I sue you for your plighted troth, 
I sue you for your hand." 

"I crave your pardon if," said she, 
"I seem distraught in mind; 

The eagles with the eagles mate, 
The thrushes seek their kind. 



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"You have your hawks, you have your hounds, 

You have your bill and bow; 
Such words will work me harm, my Lord, 

I prithee let me go." 

His brother Hugh laughed loud and said, 

"Now, by my troth, I swear 
My haughty kin would doff the rose, 

And place the thistle there." 

And while his kinsmen by his side 

Laughed loud with bitter scorn. 
Lord Widdrington, with flashing eyes, 

Leaned on his saddle-horn. 

"I give thee escort, gentle maid, 

And home I go with thee ; 
For, by Saint Ann, I will not brook 

These gibes and jeers," quoth he. 

One blessed morn the wedding bells 

Pealed from the castle fane, 
And he was Lord of Widdrington, 

And she was Lady Jane. 



85 



THE WOOING OF THE R03E 



THEN AND NOW 

A VAULTED roof, a columned nave, 

An oriel window whence the light 
Gilds fretted arch and architrave. 

As moonlight gilds the night. 
The old, old story of the heart ; 

Beside the chancel, hand in hand, 
A ring, a vow "till death do part," 

Two wedded lovers stand. 

A cold, dark sky, a darker sea, 

A foaming fringe of breaking surf; 
Beside a gnarled and leafless tree 

A path of tender turf. 
A woman kneeling on the sands. 

Two white lips parted as in prayer, 
A Niobe with outstretched hands. 

Wrestling with fell despair. 



86 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A MEMOGRAPH 

IT is strange, as I look at the play to-night, 
That her form and her features should flash 

on my sight. 
The past and the present are set in the scene, 
With the fathomless gulf of the years between ; 
While to and fro, 
In the mimic show, 

The ghosts of the actors come and go. 
Time and the traces of time are gone. 
And we live and move in the splendor of dawn. 
As I saw her once, I can see her yet, 
But her heart seems filled with a vague regret, 
For when Juliet weeps her cheeks are wet. 
Who cares for the sneer of the worldly wise, 
When youth looks down with its love-lit eyes. 
Sir Romeo waits at the wings for his call, 
And a strain of Strauss 
Thrills the breathless house, 
While a glory and glamor are over it all. 
O the sights, and the sounds, and the one face 

there. 
With the rose I had given her twined in her 

hair. 



87 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



ON THE HEIGHTS 

("The rock fell under us in one sheer sweep, 
thirty-two hundred feet.") 

HE crawls along the mountain walls, 
From whence the severed river falls ; 
Its seething waters writhe and twist. 
Then leap, and crumble into mist. 
Midway between two boundless seas 
Prone on a ragged reef he lies ; 
Above him bend the shoreless skies, 
While helpless, on his bended knees, 
Into that awful gulf profound, 
Appalled, he peers with bated breath. 
Clutches with fear the yielding ground, 
And crouches face to face with death. 
The fearful splendor of the sight 
Begets in his bewildered brain 
A downright torture of delight, 
The very ecstacy of pain. 
A sudden frenzy fills his mind, 
If he could break the bonds that bind 
And launch upon the waves of wind ; 



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Only to loose his hold and leap, 

Then, cradled like a cloud, to sleep 

Wind-rocked upon the soundless deep. 

With eyes upturned, he breaks the spell 

And creeps from out the jaws of hell. 

Pohono's siren wiles beguile — 

He drinks her kisses in the wind, 

He leaves the nether world behind. 

Up and still upward, mile on mile, 

With muffled tramp, the pilgrim creeps 

Across the frozen winding-sheet. 

Where white-faced death in silence sleeps. 

Up and still upward, to the light. 

Until at last his leaden feet 

Have mocked the eagle in its flight. 

Grim-browed and bald, Tis-sa-ack broods 

Above these white-robed solitudes. 

A mute, awe-stricken mortal stands 

Upon the fragment of a world; 

And, when the rifted clouds are curled, 

Sees far below the steadfast lands. 



89 



=^>- 



^jfjcy 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



AN OFT-TOLD TALE 

I RECOLLECT one certain night in June 

(It seems to me our nights are dearer than 
our days), 
When dust of silver from the moon 

(As some familiar poet says) 
Fell softly on the sea and land. 

It was the night of nights ; pray tell what 
harm 

For youth and beauty, arm in arm. 
To saunter down the yellow sand? 

I quite forget just how it came about; 

There was an earnest word, two hands held 
out, 
And then upon his breast, 
In momentary rest, 

The mobile mouth and tender eyes 

Were turned to him in glad surprise. 
It was so very, very nice, you know, 

To press her seaside hat against his vest, 
A sweet foretaste of heaven, although 

The rest was only momentary rest ; 
For, with remorseful start, she said: 



90 



'X ^ ' " ' " '•"■' • ' "' " Cr '^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 



"Alas ! Alas ! for me, 

It cannot, cannot be ; 
To-morrow week I am to wed." 

How small a word will grind the heart to 
dust; 
A breath of air will break the thread 

On which we hang our trust ; 
And while his lips were white and mute 
He took from her the Dead Sea fruit. 

And simply bowed his head. 
An oft-told tale ; it was the wealth 
Of youth and hope and matchless health ; 

It was the opulence of brawny arms 

Against the rent roll of a hundred farms. 
Back to his dull, unconscious books 

He went, with bruised heart and sharpened 
brain. 
To school his thoughts and mask his looks 

And nurse a purpose born of pain. 
A trifle cynical he seems, and yet 
He may, perhaps, forget. 

"Hard hit," Sir Blase says in well bred 
slang ; 

He sees the symptoms and has felt the pang. 
Brave hearts will sometimes wince, he knows, 

Will wince and still not whine, 

91 



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^ 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



If once there is no color to the rose, 

No sparkle to the wine. 
And she, she plays her wedded part 
Right royally, with subtle art ; 

And wears with pride her gilded chain ; 
But for the semblance of a heart 
We seek in vain. 

The man whose name she bears 

Is old and gray and bent with cares ; 
But then, but then, 
He is the prince of men, 
For she is mistress of the Riverside 
And has a brown stone front in town besida 

Time brings reprisals to us all. 
And soon or late we learn the truth 

That stately pride will have its fall, 
And that one little heart, forsooth. 

Outweighs it all. 



92 



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HULDA 

IN a castle built of stone, 
Hulda sits and sighs alone. 

Since her ill-starred natal day 
Forty years have passed away. 

Suitors had she by the score 
In the palmy days of yore. 

Belted knights of high degree 
Came to woo on bended knee. 

High she held her stately head ; 
"I will wed a prince," she said. 

Homeward rode the knights forlorn. 
As she turned from them in scorn. 

But the prince came nevermore 
In the palmy days of yore. 

So she sits and sighs alone 
In a castle built of stone. 



9c 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



(I 



DE PROFUNDIS 

THE waves were beating along the shore, 
And the wind swept by with a dismal moan, 

As I entered the silent house once more 
And groped my way to her room alone. 

I had seen the pageant and heard the prayer, 
And had watched the priest in the solemn 
rite, 
But I could not think that my love lay there, 
Robed for the tomb in her garments of 
white. 

And I sought her chamber with one sole 
thought, 

To find my love with her gentle face ; 
I could see the pictures her hand had wrought, 

And her bird still hung in its wonted place. 

A knotted scarf, and the fillet which bound 
Her hair, lay there with its glittering pin ; 

I opened the leaves of a book and found 
A rose I had given her pressed therein. 



94* 



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iW 



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And I said she will surely come if I call — 
She is only waiting to hear her name ; 

And I breathed the one she loved best of all, 
But the way was dark and she never came. 



II 



I was dazed and dumb, and my eyes were dry, i| 

And I watched and watched till the break of 
dawn, 

Then the rain of my tears fell fast, and I 
Knew well that the life of my life was gone. 



I 



II 



96 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



AN ALLEGORY 

SWEET Floribel, 

I fain would tell 

What once befell 

Our neighbor's starling on a time: 
Fed by a tender hand it hung 
Upon a gilded perch and sung, 

Until, alas ! one hapless day. 
Lured by a bird-note from the lime, 

In wantonness it flew away. 

Somewhere the fowler's snare is spread ; 

Unwary feet are sure to trip ; 
Forbidden fruits are sweet, 'tis said. 

Yet turn to ashes on the lip. i| 

Some fleeting, evanescent hours — 
Amid the birds, amid the flowers — 

Two silken wings were plumed with pride ; 
Then came the bitter night. 
And ere the morning light 

Our birdling drooped and died. 



96 



AND OTHER POEMS 



h 



NEITHER DO I CONDEMN 

I'VE sent for you, Will. I know you won't 
mind; 

You were always so silent and good — 
When others were rude and unkind, 

You alone understood. 

Please bring your chair here. Will, close to my 
side. 

There — lift my head. I've something to say. 
Oh, I thought last night I'd have died ; 

How I longed for the day. 

Well again soon — do you think ? Alas ! no. 
This pain at my heart like a knife — 

But it matters not when I go 
Out of this weary life. 

Now, promise me. Will, to do what I ask ; 

And bend down while I whisper my name ; 
For women like me wear a mask 

To cover and hide their shame. 



97 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



There's a little brown house on the hillside 
And a white-haired old man left alone — 

Oh, Will, if you knew how I've tried 
All these years to atone. 

Here's a package, a letter, and something more ; 

A lock of my hair — don't think it a whim ; 
Send them, dear Will, when all is o'er 

With a kind word to him. 

Conceal from him all of my wickedness; 

Say that my heart ran over with love — 
That I died praying God to bless 

And unite us above. 

Perhaps the dear God will forgive the sin 
For the sake of His Son crucified, 

And permit me to enter in, 
Pardoned and purified. 

Back of the town — on the slope, to the west — 
Is a little grave. What ! tears in your eyes ? 

Lay me there by her side to rest — 
There where my baby lies. 



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AND OTHER POEMS 



O God! This pain — it is coming. Hark! 

I shall die — don't leave me. Stay, Will, 
stay! 
I'm going — your promise — so dark — 

Pray for me, Will, oh, pray ! 

Dead. Let not the living adjudge the dead — 
Unworthy to touch His garment's hem; 

Remember the Master hath said, 
"Neither do I condemn." 



99 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 

THE MESSIAH 

HIS was the coming which the seers foresaw. 
His was the glory which men long to see, 
He was the God who died for you and me, 

And we accept the sacrifice with awe. 

His life and teachings are to us divine, 
They furnish dole for every human need; 
We would discard no dogma of the creed, 

Nor blot a word, nor abrogate a line. 

No doubting thought can turn our gold to 
dross. 
No sceptic sneer can hang our heaven with 
gloom ; 
And so we weep with Mary at the cross 

And humbly kneel with Mary at the tomb. 
The banner of our Lord is now unfurled — 
The dead Christ lives and dominates the world. 



100 



AND OTHER POEMS 



AT LAST AT REST 

A WOMAN, worn and wan, lay dying 

At a rude wayside inn; 
Winter's dead leaves without were flying. 

Dead hopes within. 

No wet-eyed mourners took their places 

Beside the bed of death. 
Or watched with sad, averted faces 

And bated breath. 

Alone, uncared-for, and untended, 

Unshriven and unblessed — 
A wayward, stormy life was ended, 

At last at rest. 

If one could read the volume written 

In furrowed lines of care ; 
If one could learn the secrets hidden 

By frosted hair ; 



101 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



How much that's wrong might thus be 
righted — 

How much might be made plain ; 
Alas ! to us, so narrow-sighted, 

God's ways seem vain. 



SUMIVIER DAYS 

HE came when stormy March was done 
And April birds were on the wing, 

When flush of sward and flash of sun 
Lent light and color to the spring. 

His smile made glad the summer days, 
Until my foolish heart was stirred; 

And as we walked the woodland ways, 
I listened to his whispered word. 

Now fields with bloom are not besprent. 
And birds no longer pipe with glee ; 

He took the summer when he went, 
And left the winter here to me. 



102 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE MAHATMA'S REDE 

CONVENED in the forest and couched on the 

sod, 
We bow to the symbol and worship the God. 
The smoke of His incense is rising on high, 
The arch of His temple is spanned by the sky. 
It is jeweled with stars and cloistered by trees. 
Illumined by moonhght and fanned by the 

breeze. 
His priests at the altars are standing apart ; 
They see with the spirit and hear with the 

heart. 
His edicts are wordless, yet fixed and sublime ; 
Far wiser than wisdom and older than time. 
To Him, the Eternal, sing paeans of praise ! 
The World without End, the Beginning of 

Days — 
Almighty, All-knowing, All-seeing, Unseen — 
The Master, the Maker, benign and serene. 
The voices of Nature intone and adore 
W^ith thunder of billows that break on the 

shore ; 
The worlds in their orbits wheel onward above, 
The fruit of His law and the proof of His 

love. 

103 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



What are we, pray tell, but a part of His 

plan — 
The life of His life in the body of Man ? 
He breathes on the germ of the spiritless clod ; 
It stirs with emotion, half human, half God; 
And thus we have being, develop and grow. 
To work out our fate and to reap what we sow. 
We live but to die, and we die but to live ; 
We lose what we gain, and we keep what we 

give; 
We think and we reason, reflect and conceive. 
We query and question, we doubt and believe; 
And yet we are baffled and seek in despair 
The why and the wherefore, the whence and 

the where. 
The priests and the prophets in ages gone by 
Heard sounds in the air and saw signs in the 

sky ; 
They fashioned a fabric of faith for our needs, 
With its marvellous forms and its merciless 

creeds. 
Invoking with carnage, while bigotry strove. 
The wrath of Jehovah, the thunders of Jove. 
Give cant to the dogs and give creeds to the 

wind, 



104 



AND OTHER POEMS 



For Gods that are false are the foes of man- 
kind. 

Inspired by himself, in this sphere where we 
dwell, 

Man makes his own heaven ; he makes his own 
hell. 

We read in the unwritten gospel and know 

That right begets joy and that wrong begets 
woe ; 

That pride is a pitfall and lust is a snare ; 

That sin may be foiled if we bear and forbear ; 

That abasement of self is more than the shrift ; 

That the giving of alms is more than the gift ; 

That calm contemplation will lure in its quest 

The soul to Nirvana, the haven of rest. 

Take counsel of conscience, my friends, I be- 
seech ; 

Be slow in your anger and calm in your speech ; 

Be gracious in manner and gentle of mien. 

With hearts that are loyal and hands that are 
clean ; 

Be just and be honest, be wise and discreet; 

The victor is crowned in the hour of defeat. 

I questioned my soul as I stood by the dead ; 

My soul in its anguish made answer and said. 

No power can destroy, and no fiat create ; 

105 



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II 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



For death is transition and life is a state, 
The fruit of conditions coercive as fate. 
Each atom of form and each atom of force 
Exist as a part of their infinite source; 
And whether in motion, or whether at rest, 
Must live by a law that is never transgressed. 
This then is the marvellous secret of death, 
To live without life and to breathe without 
breath. 



i! 



if 



106 



'**-t53^ 



/'Tg ^ i n « I ii- i i " n il Ml iC" 

AND OTHER POEMS 



MARIE 

IT chanced that I, in years gone by, 
Sought out one day, I scarce know why. 

The market of Aubette ; 
And I saw there a maiden fair, 
With midnight eyes and golden hair. 

And fate and I had met. 

I went again somehow, and then 
I often went ; for when, oh when, 

Will heedless youth beware? 
The sweet surprise within her eyes. 
As when the morn lights up the skies. 

Allured me unaware. 

Her timid glance did so entrance 
That I, beguiled thereby perchance, 

Deemed it a mere caprice ; 
Ah well-a-day, how quickly may 
We fritter golden hours away. 

Which promise joy and peace. 

An attic high, against the sky — 
Affaire d'amour — a fragile tie— ^ 

107 



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f! 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Two swallows 'neath the eaves 
One hour ago I sought and lo ! 
No birds were there; the one I know 

Has gone, the other grieves. 

Dear lost Marie, I would not see 
The heaven of love in store for me, 

But turned with pride away. 
So now I weep, and sadly keep 
My mournful vigils o'er the sleep 

Of her I spumed that day. 

Could I forget I would, and yet, 
Remorse is keener than regret. 

Requiting pain with pain. 
So when the bells ring solemn knells 
I hither bring sweet immortelles ; 

Dead birds come not again. 



1 



108 



Kj£lr3tK-t^ S*XS.^di^.- 



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SCHAMYL'S DEFEAT 

HOW Caucasus peaks were flashing 

'Neath their crowns of dazzling snow, 
How the turgid streams were dashing 

As we stemmed the torrent's flow ; 
Where the sun of summer dances 

On the boundless steppes below, 
Brightly, brightly, gleamed our lances 

When we met the Russian foe. 

O the ramp and roar of battle ! 

Beat of hoof and clash of steel — 
While the volleys flash and rattle 

And the squadrons charge and wheel ; 
Far and wide the hosts are scattered, 

Long and loud the cannons peal ; 
Now our lines are torn and shattered. 

Now our ranks recoil and reel. 

Here amid the dead and dying. 

Lost and lorn, and wounded sore — 

On the cold earth I am lying. 
And the night is closing o'er; 

Grant, O grant a dawn of splendor 

109 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



There beside the Caspian shore, 
Where my Mitska, true and tender, 
Waits to greet her love once more. 

Lo ! the lurid light is creeping 

Slowly up the eastern sky. 
Round and round the vultures sweeping, 

Watch the carnage from on high ; 
Soon the gaunt wolves will be snarling 

O'er the corpses where I lie, 
Weep not, weep not, O my darling! 

For thy lover doomed to die. 



110 



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jH"^«M.iii iiiiin;-'— ^ 

AND OTHER POEMS 



IN THE SIERRAS 

THE rocks loom o'er the tranquil vale, 

Like ruins vast and hoary ; 
Each gray old turret has its tale, 

Each seam and scar its story. 

A hundred centuries have penned 
Upon these time-stained pages, 

A secret lore, that is not kenned 
By wisest seers and sages. 

The fire, the frost, perchance the storms 

Of some primeval ocean. 
Have worn and torn these ragged forms, 

This petrified commotion. 

The years have softened all the scene, 
The winds have sown the grasses ; 

And sun and rain have clothed with green 
The naked slopes and passes. 

Here, on the granite crags I lie. 
Lulled by the wind's low wailing. 

And watch against the distant sky 
The eagle slowly sailing. 

Ill 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



The silver moon, with mellow ray, 
Across yon spur is drifting; 

The roseate tints of dying day 
Along the west are shifting. 

The gray mist gathers in the gorge, 
Where bright cascades are flowing; 

While, like the gleam of lighted forge, 
The snow-crowned peaks are glowing. 

Rare pictures, born of sun and shade. 
Come with the evening shadows ; 

Night nestles in the silent glade 
And veils the emerald meadows. 

Above, the moaning pine trees stand ; 

Below, the shining river ; 
Uncovered, in this temple grand, 

I worship God, the Giver. 



112 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ENGLAND AT BAY 

THEY have sought to revile you with jeers 
and with laughter, 
Bold mother of empires and mistress of seas ; 
Let them look to their bulwarks whenever, 
hereafter, 
The red cross of England is flung to the 
breeze. 

From the Cape to the Baltic your pennants are 
flying; 
The Czar and the Kaiser may press their 
demands, 
With a muster, ere long, of the dead and the 
dying. 
When the leash of the war hounds is slipped 
from your hands. 

Do they think to dismay? Do they dare to 
defy you? 
Do they dream that the spirit of England is 
dead ? 
It is well to recall, ere they seek to decry you. 
The fields where the blood of the Briton was 
shed. 

113 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



If they read on the scroll of your grandeur 
and glory 
The names that are deathless, the deeds that 
were done, 
They will learn how replete is the page of your 
story, 
How great are the triumphs which freedom 
has won. 

In the hush of the tempest your foes are creat- 
ing; 
Ere the tocsin is sounded, the banners un- 
furled. 
We can see on the ramparts, the Lion in wait- 
ing, 
Alone and undaunted, confronting the world. 



114 



AND OTHER POEMS 



VICTORIA 

Regina Imperatrix. 

Read at the Jubilee Banquet, San Francisco, 

June 21, 1897. 

O WOMAN, whose annals can never be torn 

From the record of England's renown; 
How wisely and well in your day you have 
borne 

The burdens of scepter and crown. 
Your hand on the pulse of the people, you feel 

The throb that responds to your own ; 
Their will is the will and their weal is the weal 

Of the Commons, the Lords, and the Throne. 

Evolved by the fates and adjusted by time, 

The poise of the nation is true ; 
Its future is fixed and its past is sublime, 

And its glory is symboled in you. 
Not the prowess of England, the might of her 
arms, 

Wherever her flag is unfurled, 



115 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



But the clang of her hammers, the tilth of her 
farms, 
Have won her the marts of the world. 

Your reign has been marked by the triumphs 
of peace. 

Resplendent in letters and art ; 
O that war and the rumors of war maj cease, .. 

Is the cry of your woman's heart. (j 

Type of all that is noblest in mother and wife, 

We hail you, O Empress and Queen ! 
God save you! and grant that your autumn 
of life 

Be peaceful, benign and serene. 



116 



AND OTHER POEMS 



WHAT MATTERS IT WHERE OR 
WHEN? 

An Episode of the Morgue. 

I AM tired of the bicker and banter of life, 
I am tired of its serfdom and thrall, 

I am tired of the stress and the strain and the 
strife, 
I am tired of it all. 

• ••••• 

The ghosts of my comrades come back to-night, 
When the battle is well-nigh done ; 

How many there were who went down in the 
fight, 
And how few there were who won. 

I put my head down on my hands and think 
Of the hopes that have passed me by. 

Of the woman who gave me a cup to drink 
And left me, to drain it dry. 

I am worn and weary and long for rest, 
And there's no one to watch and weep; 



117 



i^n^mtmammmmta 



i®^ 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



This life is only an hour at its best, 
And after — a dreamless sleep. 

(I 

The grim scythe-bearer, so gaunt and thin*, 

Reaps ever his harvest of men. 
And sooner or later will garner us in; 

What matters it where or when? 

So here's to the fellow who laughs at fate 

And falls with his face to the foe ; 
The embers are dead in the blackened grate — 

I bid you good-night, and go. 



118 



AND OTHER POEMS 



FAITH 

THE earth, our dwelling-place, is one vast 
tomb; 

Man lives his little span and then he dies ; 

Ere long his handiwork in ruin lies. 
And each and all meet one impending doom. 

And yet while power and pride go down in 
gloom, 
And fear before the dread Destroyer flies. 
And tower and temple fall, no more to rise. 

The little wayside flower bursts forth in bloom. 

And lo ! we learn that God himself doth reign ; 
The seasons come and go, and in their spheres 
The planets wheel in rhythmic sweep and 
swell. 

Death is not death, for God doth so ordain, 
Faith bids us put aside our mortal fears, 
And trust in Him who doeth all things well. 



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THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



PADRE KINO 

AS read in old monastic lore, 

So runs the legend of traditions, 

Two hundred years ago and more, 

Along Pimeria's arid shore, 

Were seen a hundred white-walled missions. 

Throughout the dread and desert lands, 

Where roamed fierce tribes intent on pillage, 
From Blanca's snows to Gila's sands, 
Transformed by consecrated hands. 

Bloomed fertile fields with careful tillage. 

And where the iridescent morn 

Once lit the waste with tinted lustres, 
Amalthea filled her fabled horn 
From meadows rank with tasseled corn 
And hillsides flushed with purple clusters. 

The subtle skill which deftly tilled 

The barren dunes and sterile places, 
By power assumed and pledge fulfilled 
And timely word and deed, instilled 

In savage breasts the Christian graces. 



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AND OTHER POEMS 



The mission bells betimes invite 

To prayer and praise and prompt confession ; 
With awe the humble neophite, 
On bended knees, each morn and night 

Tells o'er his beads in deep contrition. 

No Cortez, with his lances keen, 

On conquest bent has hither drifted; 
Only a sandled monk Is seen. 
With patient grace and prudent mien 
And sacred symbol high uplifted. 

Inspired to found a new crusade, 

With fervent faith and fixed devotion. 

From Salamanca's cloistered shade, 

In mail of righteousness arrayed. 
The Padre Kino crossed the ocean. 

Within that sanctified retreat, 

Absorbed in holy meditations. 
While kneeling at Immanuel's feet, 
He heard the voice divine repeat, 

"Go preach my gospel to all nations. "^ 

The sainted hero's race is run ; 

We read with tears the touching story, 

121 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Of how, by daily penance done 
And Christian faith and works, he won 
At last the martyr's crown of glory. 

The years, with their remorseless hands, 
Have ground to dust the white-walled mis- 
sions ; 
And, in the place of fruitful lands, 
Have left us but the drifting sands. 

The broken shrines, the old traditions. 



THE ROSE AND THE THORN 

A YOUTH, once walking in the early dawn, 
Espied a red rose blushing on the lawn. 

Its simple beauty caught his fickle sight. 
Its subtle perfume filled him with delight. 

With eager, selfish haste, that self-same morn, 
He plucked the rose, unmindful of the thorn. 

Alas, alack-a-day! his joy has fled; 
Only the thorn remains, the rose is dead. 

122 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A MONOGRAPH 

ANNO DOMINI eighteen thirty-one, 

In the third year of wedlock, there was bom 

To John and Josephine an only son. 

Thus much was written on his birthday morn. 

Swathed, nursed and christened, as befits the 
heir 

Of honest yeomen, he waxed stout and fair; 

Until at length, well grown, he quit the fold. 

A few strong headlines and the rest is told. 
A mother's hopes, a mother's fears, 
A schoolboy's triumphs and his tears, 
A dear girl's love, a stolen kiss, 
A mutual vow for good or ill, 
A year or more of wedded bliss, 
A new-made grave beyond the hill. 
The bitter pang, the life-long pain. 
The transient pleasures of an hour, 
The shifting tides of loss and gain, 
The bootless strife for place and power. 
He joined the ranks where brave men fell, 
He saw the battle's lurid glare, 
He heard the scream of shot and shell. 
The rolling drums, the trumpets blare. 



1£3 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Amid the windrows of the dead 
I knelt to-day beside his bed. 
He died as men have died before, 
A spent wave on a barren shore. 
We storm the fortress, and we fail ; 
We dream of eagle-flights, and fall. 
I have writ down an o'er-true tale; 
Alas ! God help us — that is all. 



lU 



-..^>- 



f ^ Q: 



AND OTHER POEMS 

LONG TOM 

PASSING to-day on the crowded street, 
A character quaint I chanced to meet, 
Dressed in an obsolete, primitive way — 
Erewhile the mode, but just now not au fait — 
By a bundle of blankets freighted down, 
111 at ease in the ways of the town. 
Vacantly looking at this and that 
Under rim of his limpsy hat; 
Bent of body and shaky of limb. 
Grizzled of locks, and gaunt and grim, 
A wistful look in his filmy eye. 
Purposeless, hopeless sauntering by. 

This singular somebody, I opine, 
Is an antique fossil of Forty-nine ; 
Albeit a taciturn man he seems. 
His babble will flow like the mountain streams, 
If you simply suggest a "social smile" ; 
He takes whiskey straight, remarking mean- 
while 
That he finds since he had the rheumatiz 
That it don't do to take water in his ; 
Then follow, perforce, the trail of his talk, 
It leads over somewhere to some North Fork, 

125 



^xSr 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Thence up the river to So-and-so's Bar, 
And he will tell you that "thar was whar," 
Just under the grass-roots, one day he found 
Pockets of nuggets and dust by the pound. 

Events are the milestones which mark time's 

lapse, 
Whereby he recounts his haps and mishaps. 
'Twas the summer that Texas Bill was drowned. 
Or the gulch whar the ten-pound lump was 

found. 
Or the day when Page & Bacon busted. 
Or the time when Dave got up and dusted. 
The year of the Frazier River stampede — 
The dogondest humbug he ever seed. 
He's only waiting to make his pile — 
In coal-oil parlance they say, "strike ile" — 
And then he'll go back to the States, you bet, 
And see the old gal and the chicks ; and yet, 
He hasn't heard for many a year 
From Sal and the babies ; 'tis somewhat queer ; 
But then he reckons the times is tight. 
And Sal never was much on the write. 
Poor driveler! 'tis years since Sal was laid 
In dreamless sleep 'neath the willows' shade. 



126 



■>ffB*-^cge» - r ^g^ t»Th* f^ ■ * u 



-.li.UI.. «*!«!*' 



AND OTHER POEMS 



And your babies must men and women be, 
Drifting about on the open sea. 
Better go down in the stormy^ strife, 
Than strand on the reefs of a useless life. 



IN THE SWIM 

I WAS struck with the warmth of her greet- 
ing, 

When she gave me her finger tips ; 
And I heard with surprise, at our meeting, 

The laugh and the chaff of her lips. 

I thought her as cool as December, 

Whenever we met heretofore. 
But now I had found her an ember, 

With smiles and with small-talk galore. 

She talked of the fun and the fashion, 
She talked of the dullness of town. 

She talked of the play and its passion, 
She talked of her new Paris gown. 

127 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



And then, with a queer little gesture, 
She said it was laid on the shelf; 

Though sad was the hue of her vesture. 
She seemed in high feather herself. 

My man, in the meantime, was walking 

My team on the asphalt below, 
And I asked could we not do our talking 

On the road to the "CliiF?" Would she go? 

Ah no, she was housed for the season, 
She thought it bad form to go out; 

Then told me, sub rosa, the reason — 
Her Uncle had died of the gout. 

As she passed me the wine and the biscuit. 
She said it might do after dark. 

And if I thought best, she would risk it 
And go for a spin in the Park. 

I may be as dull as a booby. 

But I thought, as we stood in the hall, 
She has heard of dad's strike in the "Ruby," 

And thinks me a catch, after all. 



128 



AND OTHER POEMS 



"TINS TO MEND!" 

"TINS to mend!" How he swings along, 
That curious man with his tattered clothes, 
And his swarthy face and his crooked nose. 
And that nasal chant wherever he goes, 

Quaint burlesque of a song. 

The vagrant life he leads, who knows? 
Through the highways and byways, out and in, 
Searching early and late for worn-out tin; 
The housemaid declares that he smells of gin — 

He don't seem like a rose. 

As I watched him that autumn day, 
I marvelled if perchance some biting scorn, 
Or a blighted hope, or a life forlorn. 
Had not changed the gold of his early morn 

Into an ashen gray. 

And where fell first his childhood's glance — 
Whether by Vineland's hilled and castled 

stream. 
Or where the Bosphor's storied waters gleam, 
Or Adriatic's thousand islands seem 

The haunts of old romance. 

129 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



"Tins to mend!" was the weird refrain 
Which fell on my ear as I strolled along, 
Farther and farther from the city's throng, 
Till by an humble cot he ceased hi5 song, 

From toil set free again. 

The door ajar, I saw him kissed; 
A little child, with sweet, endearing cry. 
Sprang to his arms, love beaming from her eye ; 
Mine own were somehow wet — I can't tell why — 

It might have been the mist. 

The good God keeps us in His sight — 
Sure, if in pleasant paths our footsteps fall, 
Or if our dead hopes lie beneath the pall, 
That joy and sorrow come alike to all, 

That mom succeeds the night. 



130 



AND OTHER POEMS 



"MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN" 

THE Manchu gave no heed to war's alarms, 

But drove his flocks afield, and pitched his 
tent; 
Till Genghis Kahn had called his hordes to 
arms, 

And by one blow the Middle Kingdom rent. 
Leaving a trail of blood and fire behind, 

He neither stays his onward march, nor waits. 
Till even Europe stands aghast to find 

This Tartar Chieftain at her very gates. 

Let Celt and Gaul and Muscovite beware. 

Lest in their lawless lust and greed, some day 
They wake the sleeping tiger in his lair. 

And see the Yellow Peril turn at bay. 
Justice may drop the scales, and draw the 
sword ; 

A Menace stands behind you one and all; 
Then hear and heed the grave potential word 

Belshazzar saw upon his palace wall. 



131 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



AU REVOIR 



TO J. D. R. 



BOON comrade, in a hundred brilliant bouts, 
Where wit with wit plajed earte and tierce 

full fast, 
With eager thrust and parry to the last. 
We've hailed thee victor knight with pealing 
shouts. 

And in life's ups and downs and ins and outs, 
When weaklings wait and folly stands aghast, 
Fail not. Sir Knight, to prick, as in the 
past, 

The thin pretense of shams, the fear of doubts. 

'Tis well betimes, in our prosaic land, 
To conjure up the days of old romance, 

When simple faith was more than sordid 
might. 
And if so be the hour and age demand. 

We look to see thee, armed with sword and 
lance. 
Go forth to strike for God and for the 
right. 

13^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 



TO RAPHAEL WEILL 

(Read at a dinner tendered him by citizens cf 

San Francisco, upon which occasion he 

was invested with the Cross of the 

Legion of Honor by the Consul 

General of France.) 

IN glad response I strike my dormant lyre, 
To give thee greeting loyal friend and true ; 
And as old mem'ries flood my soul anew, 

I fain would wake once more its fervid fire. 

The boon companions of thy foster-land. 

Now standing here on life's meridian crest, 
Exult to see that cross upon thy breast, 

Proud token of the open heart and hand. 

Not in the realm of letters or of art. 

Nor on the tented field like knight of old, 
By some brave deed hast thou thy guerdon 
won; 
But here where thou hast nobly borne thy part, 
This honor comes, with blessings manifold, 
To crown thy life Dear Heart, for good 
deeds done. 

133 



^T 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



17 



A RED-LETTER DAY 

AN hour of toil and strife, and we are dead. 
Life is a lie, a bitter lie, I said, 

And death itself is only dust to dust. 

All men are mad indeed with venal lust, 
The toiling galley slaves of cent per cent ; 

There is no cure, alas ! for all these ills. 
In such a mood I folded up my tent 

In sooth and sought the freedom of the hills. 
And from the couch of pine boughs where I lie, 
As one by one the dark-winged shadows fly, 

I watch the birth of this auspicious day. 
There is a quickening in the womb of night, 
A fringe of dawn and then the flush of light. 

Slowly the sable curtain rolls away. 
Let there be light, as God Himself ordains. 

A beacon lit by His divine decree. 
Sign-manual that law and order reigns. 

Flashes from space athwart the land and sea. 
Full-orbed the prince of light and life is bom. 

His royal banners flush the eastern skies ; 

I shake the spell of slumber from my eyes 
And hie me forth elate to meet the mom. 

And lo! from peak to peak, on either hand, 



134. 



i^' 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The new-born daylight ripples o'er the land. 

All hail, Aurora, herald of the sun ! 
As o'er the peaks thy coursers dash apace, 

Behold the pale-faced stars die one by one, 
And earth, awaking from the cool embrace 
Of night, reveals to us her rosy face. 

Although the impress of repose remains, 
The seal of sleep is broken; to the ear 
Come palpitating waves of sound ; I hear 

The life-tide ebb and flow in nature's veins, 
Tones inarticulate, the stir of wings, 
The mellow murmur of earth's viewless springs. 

An amber halo glorifies the hills ; 
And as the owl on muffled wing retires, 

One half-awakened minstrel lightly trills 
An overture for all the sleeping choirs. 

The countless choristers will join ere long 

In one exultant avalanche of song. 
Come forth, O weary denizen of town. 

Bathe in the sunshine, breathe the balmy air ; 
Shake off the toils of traffic and lay down 

The life-long burden which you seem to bear. 
Wait not for death to break thy prison bars, 

And send thy ransomed soul to paradise; 
But seek betimes the free glad life beneath the 
stars, 

135 



i 



..> 



I( 



! 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



For thee the gods have spread a rich repast ; 
Ambrosia falls like manna from the skies 
And nectar flows in every wayside rill. 
Come forth and break, for once, thy life-long 
fast. 
And from this gracious bounty take thy fill. 
With eager step I climb the ridge to seek 
A highland glade beneath the purple peak. 
There all the shining day, from dawn till 
dark. 
The wary birds beneath the covert hide. 

Meanwhile my dogs exult with bound and 
bark 
And beat the tangled brake from side to side. 
Borne onward by the day's advancing light, 
The waves of warmth roll down the rocky 
height. 
And long before the ardent sun has kissed 
The humid lowlands with his earliest beam, 
I catch the gleam and sparkle of the stream 
Between the fading folds of silver mist. 
From nook and nest, when full-fledged day is 

born. 
What swarms of life come forth to greet the 
morn. 



136 



■ — -. n ^* .. 



AiND OTHER POEMS 



J! 



The drowsy hum of the bee is heard 

And the locust's clanging cry, 
And a flashing gem in the form of a bird 

On its jeweled wings darts by. 
The linnet sings in the lowly hedge 

And the raven croaks above ; 
The lizard basks on the crannied ledge 

And the hawk swoops down an the dove. 
The dragon-fly like a fiend is seen 

Poised in mid-air on his gauze-like wings ; 
And beetles and moths in gold and green, 

And wasps with their shining rings. 
Spiders are weaving their filmy snares. 

And bees are hoarding their honeyed stores ; 
While emmets, busy with household cares. 

Trail over the forest floors. 
Butterflies creep from the silken pall 

In the tomb where the chrysalis dies ; 
And through brooding leaves the sunbeams fall 

And luminous columns of light arise. 
In these shafts of light, from morn to night, 
The midges reel in their amorous flight. 

The marmots chatter, the magpies scold. 
The quails are piping along the slopes ; 

And down in the heart of the dusky wold 
The owl sits alone in his crypt and mopes. 

137 



^b= 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Through the reedy marsh the bitterns wade, 
And along the marge the herons stalk ; 

The rabbit scurries across the glade, 
And over the canon wheels the hawk. 

r skirt along the mountain's bosky flank 
And find primeval parks of pines and firs. 
Between the shoulders of projecting spurs 

These lordly cones are marshaled rank on 
rank. 
In the ambrosial gloom dark aisles of pines 

Lead out to sunny glades and laughing water- 
ways. 
Where moss-enameled trunks and trailing vines 

Hedge in the bud and bloom of vernal days. 

Down the cool distance of the long arcade 
The white azalea's snowflakes fleck the way ; 

And in the shelter of the fostering shade 
I pluck one hooded violet of May. 

The fragrance of the flower-embroidered 
mead 
Fills all the dreamy air with fresh delight. 
Undaunted, from some far sequestered height. 

The doe leads here her spotted fawns to feed ; 
And here the bee and bird and butterfly 
Find spread for them a floral feast on high. 

138 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Borne on the tides of air, now faint, now 
clear. 

The roar of waters breaks upon my ear. 
A shower of brook-notes floods the perfect day, 

Where sun-rays pierce the meshes of the mist 
An arch of splendor spans the falling spray. 

Haply some Naiad haunts the stream; I list 
The sibylistic whisper of the leaves ; 
A Faun seems grieving when the fir-tree grieves, 

And in the pine's pathetic monotone 

Methinks I hear the sad-voiced Ariel moan. 
Drenched by the rain of ceaseless waterfalls. 
Moist-footed mosses scale the dripping walls. 

Here, wary of the angler's tempting hook. 

The lithe and spotted leopard of the brook 

Lurks for his prey in every shaded nook. 
With ruffled crest and sharp, discordant cries. 

The feathered fisher flits from limb to limb. 
Into the fret and foam the ouzel flies, 

Above the nether pool the swallows skim. 
This is the gate-way — and on either hand 

The fragments of colossal cliff^s. I climb 
From rock to rock, until at last I stand 

Upon the ragged battlements of time. 
The earth's historian is death; and here. 



139 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



From age to age, are stamped the records 
of the past. 
Man and his handiwork may disappear, 

But these shall last as long as time shall last. 
In the archaic years the glacier's fangs 

Laid bare these granite ribs, and ground to 
dust 

The concrete layers of the lava crust. 
Rents, riven by the earthquake, mark the pangs 

Of nature and reveal to us the throes 
Of earth. These rounded domes, these cloud- 
capped spires, 

Congealed and moulded into grand repose. 
Bespeak the fury of volcanic fires. 

Down the long pathway of the ages time 
Has wrought with magic touch, transmuting all 

The fearful splendors of creation's prime. 
And as the aeons rolled away, the pall 

Was lifted from the sea and land, and life 

Was born of death, the elemental strife 
Was hushed, the Voice Divine was heard, peace 

reigned, 
And beauty blossomed in the earth. Ordained 

By some fixed taw, the seasons come and gc. 
The wind-sown seeds in desert places sleep. 

Until the sunbeams kiss the dust, when lo ! 

140 



4 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Tho hidden germs are stirred, the heavens weep, 

And life triumphant springs from last year's 
tomb. 
Into the crannied rocks the lichens creep. 

Along the crater's rim the roses bloom. 
The streams, from winter's icy chain set free 

And fed by falling rain and melting snow, 

Rush down the ice-worn water-ways and flow 
In melted music to the summer sea. 

Within the mountain's lap enshrined, 
And where the falling waters wake 

A thousand echoes from the cliffs, I find 
A rock imprisoned lake ; ' '' 

Locked in a glacier's tomb, it lies asleep. 
Belted by firs and fringed with water-plants ; 
Upon its shining disk the sunbeams dance 

And from its polished lip the rapids leap. 
Seen through the water's cool eclipse, behold, 

Suspended in its calm, unruffled breast, 
The hanging outlines of the dusky wold 

And the inverted headlands of the crest. 
Lured by the wild seclusion of the place, 
Its savage grandeur and its tender grace ; 

Lulled by the ripple of the wind and tide. 

The incense and the song of birds, I bide 
A blissful moment ; and as I depart 

141 



''V*— — -r 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



I turn from thee, tranquil lake, and hide 
A picture and a poem in mj heart. 
Three hours, at least, since dawn and here we 
are; 
Ten miles, o'er mount and moor, as flies the 

crow. 
The skulking covey now is near at hand; 
My dogs have snuifed the battle from afar. 
How quick they catch the scent, how staunch 

they stand, 
Steady, my faithful Bess — ^to-ho — to-ho ! 
And even as I speak the grey cock springs, 
Bursts through the tangled brake with whir of 
wings 
And drops, dead bird, upon the heath below. 
Once more, my mottled beauties, left and right 
Two well-directed shots have stopped your 
flight; 

\l The heart does penance, but the hand will 

1 kill. 

Good dog — dead bird — go seek — dead bird, I 
say. 
By Jove, another, and — another still, 
Steady, my braves, there's gallant sport to-day. 
And so, on rapid wings, the hours go by; 
;l I little heed the moments as they fly. 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The covert we have beaten o'er and o'er 
Have flushed a score of birds, at least, and 
more. 

High noon is blazing on the purple crest; 

Call in the panting dogs, I fain would rest. 
The fevered land lies throbbing in the heat; 

And I will seek some quiet cloister-shade, 

Some leafy mosque with arabesque inlaid. 
'Tis but a step to yonder still retreat. 

Where screens of silken canopies invite 

To cool siestas in the chastened light. 
There are no frowning gates to bar the way; 

I hear no warder's challenge as I pass ; 

Latticed with leaves and carpeted with grass. 
Its sylvan doors are open to the day. 

I cross the threshold of this leaf-line nest. 

And find myself at once a welcome guest. 
No host receives me with a smiling face, 

But rare civilities have no surcease. 
I am the sole possessor of the place, 

To break my bread and drink my wine in 
peace. 
My dogs beside me, couched upon the sward, 
I sit me down to lunch like any lord. 

There is no sauce like appetite, I ween ; 
And I have dined and wined enough to be aware 

113 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



That brimming cups and lengthy bills of fare 

Will not disperse the vapors of the spleen; 
For while amid the salvos of the feast 

A man may half forget his galling chain, 
Whene'er this brief oblivion has ceased 

There comes, as recompense, an afterpain. 
And so, to fly the lure of tempting ills, 
I take betimes to tent-life on the hills. 

There we obey the mandate, "Kill and eat,'* 
Because no meagre diet will suffice 

When health and hunger by the camp-fire 
meet. 
First, from the hanging haunch a tender slice 

Broiled on the glowing embers to a turn. 

And then, impaled where blazing fagots burn, 
A bird or two, by timely shot brought down. 
Larded with bits of bacon, crisp and brown. 

What if the fare be plain, the service crude, 
We have a wealth of appetite at least ; 

And last of all, to cheer the solitude, 

A cup of camp-brewed coffee, amber-hued. 
Which is the crowning glory of the feast. 

And then, at night, the song, the laugh, the 
jest. 

The camp-fire tales related with a zest : 
How in the jungle someone chanced to meet 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The shaggy monster with the shuffling feet, 
And how discretion sought a safe retreat. 

Hard by the stream, beside the antlered oak. 
The wolf beneath my waistcoat fast asleep, 

From my post-prandial pipe the coils of 
smoke 
Unwind and vanish in the upper deep. 

Unmindful of the pendent sword, mayhap, 
In dreamy lassitude at ease I lie 

Upon the moorland's aromatic lap, 
And scan the vast abyss of shoreless sky. 

Away, upon the outmost verge of sight, 

The livelong day, at that far height, 
An eagle, resting on his wings. 
Wheels round and round in circling rings. 

In pensive mood I turn my half-closed eyes 
Across the hazy lowlands, leagues away. 
Where dim ethereal ramparts, vast and gray, 

Rise, Alps on Alps, against the vaulted skies. 
I mark the splendid sweep of plain below. 

The miles on miles of undulating hills. 

The darker gorges of the upland rills. 
The sinuous curves where tree-fringed rivers 
flow. 

Mid-summer days have tanned the valley's 
hide, 

145 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



And draped the mountain's corrugated side 
In dappled robes of gold and green and dun. 
Where heat-waves wimple in the noonday sun, 
White farmsteads nestle under brooding trees 
And gleam like white sails on the wrinkled 
seas. 
Stout-hearted nomads, from far distant lands, 
Have pitched their tents and lit their camp- 
fires here ; 
And though the thirsty fields are brown and 
sere, 
An ample harvest waits on willing hands. 
Time was whene'er the ardent sun rode by, 
]\Iay blushed the while and breathed a fragrant 
sigh. 
Then came the passion of imperial June, 
As morn is followed by the fervid noon, 
And then the tawny splendor of July. 

Metallic lustres brighten as the summer 
wanes, 
The sky itself is like a sea of glass, 

The snow-fed streams are links of silver 
chains, 
The rounded hills are waves of molten brass. 
Where erst the earth was clad in rainbow 
hues 

1:6 



il 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ii 



And gilded insects wrapped themselves in fire, 
Now Flora dies upon her kindled pyre, 

And all the pageantry of death ensues. 
In the still half-light of the nearer shade, 

Where sunbeams filter through the leaves, 
behold! 
The summer's pall, the autumn's masquerade, 

The dead year's cast-off garments turned to 
gold. 
Here I escape the world's discordant noise. 

The burden of the nights, which bring no 
rest; 

No palms appeal to me, no toilsome quest 
For wealth or fame ; in blissful equipoise 

I lie content on nature's tranquil breast. 
The calm repose of perfect peace abounds. 

I hear the breeze coquetting with the trees. 

The hum of myriad wings, the drone of bees. 
And fill my heart with these delightful sounds. 

Lulled by the woodland's weird aeolian lyre. 
And the delicious babble of the streams, 
I fold my listless hands and dream my dreams, 

Unvexed by doubt, unruffled by desire. 
No longer worldly wise, I hold a sweet 

Communion with the bee and bird and flower. 
Speech fails and falters when I would repeat 

147 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



The wondrous harmonies of this glad hour. 
I know, and only know, that as I kneel 

In silent ecstasy upon the sod, 
I listen with my inmost soul, and feel 

No discords in the orchestras of God. 

The banners which at morn assailed the east 
Now trail in burnished pomp along the west. 

The vesper song of birds has well-nigh 
ceased. 
And tranquil nature lulls herself to rest. 

Already twilight lurks within the wold, 
So swift the hours have flown on silken wings. 

The waning daylight sows its dust of gold, 
And on the crest a fitful splendor flings. 

As rapid hours complete the ripened day. 
The new moon's sickle reaps the yellow sheaf. 

Whate'er betide of good or ill, alway 
My book of life has one illumined leaf. 



148 



«i«=0 



AND OTHER POEMS 



THE DEATH OF AL HaRITH 

AL HAMADaNI, wonder of his time, 
Relates how Harith, blessed with goodly store, 
The owner of a hundred steeds and more, 
Grown overwise and restless in his prime, 
Set sail upon the desert seas of yore. 
From Irak to Damascus, bold of wing. 
He braves the tongue of flame, the simoon's 

blast ; 
Backward the iron hoofs of his coursers fling 
The dust of travel, till he stands at last 
Beside the blessed gate of Illah, where 
The shining city sits beneath the palms. 
His face towards Mecca first, he bows in prayer. 
As all good Moslems should, bestows his alms, 
And then betakes him to the bath; then pays 
His service to the Kadi, to express. 
With due decorum, all the gi-ave excess 
Of Oriental greeting; length of days. 
Increase of store — for thus, in Eastern lands, 
With gracious speech, the Moslem greets hi§ 

guest. 
And so the son of Irak folds his hands 
And sits him down by Syrian streams to rest. 



149 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



To Oriental ears no sound so sweet 

As sound of running waters ; while he makes 

The pilgrimage of life in dust and heat, 

He fondly hopes, whene'er his soul awakes 

In Paradise, to realize his dreams 

Of singing bulbuls and of babbling streams. 

Damascus, gold within and grime without, 
With here and there a narrow, tortuous street. 
Through which the living tides flow in and out. 
We catch a glimpse of palms above the walls. 
And in the transient hush of hurr^nng feet 
We hear the tinkling tones of waterfalls. 
Within the portals, sheltered from the heat 
When sultry days succeed to lustrous dawns, 
Are cool arcades where shining waters run, 
And tesselated courts, and terraced lawns, 
And marble fountains, flashing in the sun. 
'Twas much the same a thousand years ago. 
The dreamy Moslem life pulsed to and fro 
In the same sensual round, when Harlth found 
Its mosques and market places crescent- 
crowned. 
A mart of splendor by a sea of sand, 
Her khans were filled with wares from ever}'' 
land: 

150 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Spices and gums, frankincense, musk, and 

myrrh. 
Amber and coral from the Indian seas ; 
Brocades and arabesques from Nishampur, 
Inwrought with gold and silver filigrees ; 
Embroidered silks and satins, rare perfumes, 
Rubies from Ava, pearls from Hindustan ; 
Cambrics and tapestries from Persian looms, 
Caftans from Fez, and shawls from Khorasan. 
Rivers of wine and oil ran down the streets, 
While, tossed and travel-stained, the desert 

fleets. 
With freights from Egypt, Khiva and Cathay, 
Beside her sacred gates at anchor lay. 

Hot is the heart of youth; what wonder, then, 
As in his veins the streams of molten lava leap. 
That he of Irak should, like other men. 
Forget the words of wisdom and, despite 
The warnings of the Prophet, fall asleep 
In some forbidden palace of delight? 
Meanwhile the moons of Syria waxed and 

waned ; 
And he, enchanted first and then enchained, 
A w^illing slave in silken meshes lay 



151 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Where broad-browed nymphs with sombrous 

waves of hair 
And lustrous eyes that shunned the Hght of 

day, 
Like Venus veiled in phantom robes of spray, 
Were idly swaying in the perfumed air. 
Change follows change in all material things ; 
The dawn gives place to day, the day to night. 
Our treasures, as the Prophet says, have wings 
And, like the mists of morning, take their 

flight. 
Love tires of its delicious pain, and power 
Is but the fleeting phantom of an hour. 
Perhaps the still small voice by night was 

heard. 
Which comes to us unbidden and unsought ; 
Perhaps the ghost of loves forsaken stirred 
Once more the turbid current of his thought. 
If vows were made, or expiation done, 
The text does not disclose, nor can we tell; 
But this we know, he broke the Circean spell, 
And swore by Allah that the morrow's sun 
Should see him on his way. And when the dawn 
With rosy fingers had in part withdrawn 
The mantle of the night, he stole away, 
Leaving the dancers at their revels still, 

152 



AND OTHER POEMS 



And with his camel-drivers waited till 
The earth unveiled before the full-orbed day. 
Beyond the gates, beside the sacred well, 
In abject squalor, on his leathern mat 
Abu Ben Zayd, the prince of beggars, sat. 
And told his wondrous tales and sought to sell 
His amulets : "This, from the holy shrine. 
Will guard thee, son of Islam, from thy foes ; 
And this — peace be with thee and thine — 
Will comfort thy distress and soothe thy woes ; 
And this — if thou shouldst chance to go 

astray — 
Will lead thee safely back." "Upon my word," 
Al Harith said, "I do believe 
Thou liest; and as the spider weaves his web 

for prey. 
So thou dost weave these pretexts to deceive." 
The Prophet in the seventh heaven heard 
The impious scofF, the dervish bowed his head. 
"Ulah iV Allah!" God is great, he said, 

A steel-blue sky above, and on either hand. 
As far as the eye can reach, a sea of sand. 
In all of the great white space no sound or 
sight ; 

153 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Only the glare of day, only the hush of night. 

Curses have followed like wolves as they march 

Day after day, under the arch 

Of the pitiless sky; no joy and no rest, 

For omens are thick in the thin white air ; 

And the camel-drivers forget to jest 

When Fear looks into the face of Care. 

In the door of his tent Al Harith sits, 

And his face wears a troubled look, for lo ! 

On the rim of the desert a shadow flits 

And it seems like the cloud of the coming foe. 



'» 



He hears their hoof-beats nearer and more 

near; 
No hope in flight; and paralyzed with fear, 
He calls on Allah, but he calls in vain. 
Across the wide expanse of arid plain 
Full half a hundred horsemen dash; 
And foremost, where the circling sabres flash. 
Behold! the face of him who sought to sell 
The amulets beside the sacred well. 

Ten centuries attest the force of this 
One sabre stroke. 

In all the eastern lands 



154 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Abu Ben Zajd is held in high repute, 
Because he fixed the faith in amulets 
And gave to every canting mendicant, 
From Mecca to Stamboul, this poor pretext 
To make a merchandise of piety. 
The Prophet says : "Give ear, O sons of men ! 
Obey the precepts of the faith, and then 
Accept the preordained decrees of fate." 
"Illah il' Allah !" Only God is great. 



165 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



!i 



DOM PERIGNON 
(The Discoverer of Champagne) 

CROSSING the purple hills of Epernay, 

Hard by the little thorp of Haut Villier, 
Just where the winding river blocks the way, 

A gray old ruin you may chance to see, 
Long since the famous Abbey of Saint Pierre, 

But erst the castle-keep of chivalry; I 

Where broad-arched portals led to columned I 

courts, 1 

With terraces, and lawns, and blazoned halls, 
And list for jousts of arms, and manly sports; 

While, pendent from its battlemented walls. 
The oriflamme of France flashed on the sight. 

Fresh from his conquests in the Holy Land, 
His casque and corselet cast aside, the knight 

Bent here above his lady's jeweled hand; 
And here, of old, did valiant men at arms 

Their wassails and their drinking bouts pro- 
long 
From dark till dawn — instead of war's alarms, 

The gust of laughter and the gush of song. 
Along these corridors their iron heels rang, 

And here, on festive nights and tilting days, 

156 



AND OTHER POEMS 



His harp in hand, the wandering minstrel sang 

His madrigals and tender roundelays. 
Here, too, the jester in his cap and bells. 

With licensed leer, assailed pretense and 
sham. 
Played carte and tierce with medigeval swells 
And stabbed them with a well-turned epigram. 
But knight and minstrel and my lady fair 
Gave place to cowled monks. Some one has 
said: 
"The pen is mightier than the sword, and 
prayer 
More potent than the monarch's crowned 
head," 
And so it seems ; for, like a king of kings, 

The priest became the potentate of France — 
Held court and crown and state in leading 
strings. 
Made war and peace, yet never lifted lance. 

Who could foretell the change that was to be 
From rocky caves to grand cathedral aisles, 

And from the manger to the Papal See? 
Beneath the domes of consecrated piles 

A treasure trove has been preserved for us ; 



157 



THE WOOING or THE ROSE 



For music, marble, canvas could, in part, 
Repeat the story of the cross, and thus 

The Church became the very shrine of art. 
At first, the monk could worship in his cell, 

Without the ritual of form and cant. 
The burning taper and the tinkling bell. 

The swinging censor and the solemn chant. 
He gave his life to prayer and holy thought ; 

And when the enemy of souls enticed. 
With scourge and fast, on bended knees, be- 
sought 

The Virgin Mother and the risen Christ. 
Not so our brotherhood of jovial fame. 

They ate with toothsome zest the rich repast ; 
Were bacchanals in fact and monks in name. 

And loved the feast much better than the 
fast. 
They cried: "Give us this day our daily 
bread," 

Which meant fat capon for monastic gi-eed ; 
And then they gathered tithes, waxed fat, and 
fed 

The hinds on husks of faith and crumbs of 
creed. 
But who will dare to say they were not vv'ise, 

If for themselves they killed the fatted calf? 

158 



F 



AND OTHER POEMS 






\ \ 



Not I, at least ; for I have learned that half ' 

The fine-spun theories which men devise 
Are only snares, in short, for catching flies. j 

The monastery lands were deftly tilled; ( 

From year to year the Friars leased the soil, ■ 

Received therefor the lion's share, and filled 

The Abbey bins with corn and wine and oil, 
Dom Perignon, purveyor of the vaults, l[ 

With reputation reaching to our day — 

Like Sancho Panza's uncle, so they say — • 
Could tell at once the virtues and the faults 

Of every drop of wine produced ; and knew 

The kinds of grape, the hillsides where they 
grew, 

The modicum of sun and rain and dew. 
With just the proper mixing to impart 

The flavor which the epicures require. 
His brain, perhaps, was sluggish, but his heart 

Was like his wine — full of imprisoned fire. 

Who knows the fermentation of desire. 

Which fumed and fretted day and night, 
unseen, 

Beneath the Friar's unkempt gabardine.^ 

Some golden years gone by ere youth had 
flown, 

159 



iSUiWS^ r i ■ I mi l 11 " ' i ! . ' i r ""j.^J_a_ J. g fT! 




THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



And ere youth's oaten follies had been sown, 

In that gay capital of La Belle France, 
It was my wont, at times, to stroll about 
The haunts where madcap-students sing and 
shout. 
And where with gay grisettes they dance. 
In an old cafe by the sluggish Seine, 
Two close converging streets between, 
Where these wild roisterers oft did congregate, 
His portrait hangs, or there it hung of late. 
In half a dozen dashes of the pen 

I'll try to sketch the likeness of the man — 
That is, I'll do the best I can; 
And if I fail, why then — what then? 

With some small share of tact and less of 
art. 
And more of that old Saxon gift called knack. 

As in charades, I'll improvise a part 
And dress it from my store of bric-a-brac. 
And first, the part most prominent, in fine, 
I'll take this Arab wine-skin filled with wine 
And hang it here upon the smoky wall 
Above these Roman sandals ; over all 
I'll drape this Friar's frowsy gown, 
And last, this masker's face — a full-orbed 
moon — • 

160 



AND OTHER POEMS 



And the sketch is doncj from the shaven 

crown 
To the soles of the sandal-shoon. 



Now, I'll be bound, you thought of course to 
see 

Some thin aesthetic saint on prayers intent, 
And not this counterfeit of piety. 

Small doubt, indeed, but he must needs re- 
pent — 
In fact, but for his priestly robe, I fear 

He would be deemed an arrant sinner. 
Far less concerned about his vows austere 

Than for the flavor of his dinner. 
But then, all men are prone to sin, you know, 
And monks, at best, are only men ; and so 
They wrap themselves in sackcloth, while they 

line 
Their ample gowns with capon and with wine. 
Concede that to the priestly robe there clings 

An odor of sanctity, if you will; 
We find that an angel without his wings 

Is only a mortal in dishabille. 
A truce to dull polemics^ You shall see 

That not by constant prayer and self-re- 
straint 

161 



WP 






THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Did Padre Perignon become the saint 
Of social Sybarites, like you and me. 
But thus it came to pass one day 
A cask of vapid Epernay — 
Which he betimes had fortified 

With syrup and with eau-devie — 
Made mad with effervescing pride, 

Burst its frail bonds exultingly. 
Some drops fell on the Friar's lips, 
His hand into the flood he dips, 
And lo, a miracle! He sips 
The drink divine, with wonder quaffs 
A living wine that leaps and laughs. 
Pale, phosphorescent spark that lights 

A sensuous flame refined and rare. 
All hail, O Monk! thy neophytes 
Are demigods — or think they are. 
Look to thy laurels, Bacchus ! crown anew 
Thy cups with garlands ; for thy wine has 
caught 
A rarer spirit and a richer hue 

From this fat Friar's accidental thought. 

We shed no hackneyed, ill-timed tears 

Upon an old monastic tomb, 
But pour libations on a shrine. 

162 



■A. 



AND OTHER POEMS 



His name from out the cloistered gloom. 
Borne on the tossing tide of wine, 

Drifts down the cycle of the years. 
Amid the salvos of the feast 
Let all good bacchanals, at least, 
In silence toast the jocund priest. 



163 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



fl 



II 



A FACE 

I MET a maiden on the street — 

I knew another long ago — 
And as she passed with tripping feet, 

I looked, and lo ! 
I saw the face I used to know. 

The winsome smile, so rare and sweet, 
The downcast eyes, the cheeks aglow; 

Ah me, it made my old heart beat, 
Though well I know 

That on her grave the daisies grow. 



164. 



TRANSLATIONS 



AND OTHER POEMS 



ALONE 

(From the German) 

THE night wind is lifting its wings once more 

And sighing and soughing among the reeds ; 

The brambles are thick and my feet are sore, 

And the path is dim and my poor heart 

bleeds. 

I hear from the tower, like the knell of woe, 
The clang of the clock, with its one, two, 
three ; 

Out into the night and the storm I go, 

For no firelight gleams on the hearth for me. 

The heavens are dark and the fog drops down, 
And my heart is weak, which was once so 
strong ; 

I can see the far-off lights of the town, 

But my feet are worn and the way is long. 

Oh, if, when it comes to the end at last. 
After night, and silence, and vain surmise, 

I could find you waiting, as in the past, 

With your smiling lips and your beaming 



eyes ! 



167 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



ROSETTE 

(After Ber anger) 

IN this, the heyday of your youth, 

How can you sit and prate, my dear, 
Of love and faith to one, forsooth. 

Whose forty years are in the sear? 
Time was when my fond heart could pay 

Its vows to one obscure grisette; 
Ah me! if only I, to-day. 

Could love you as I loved Rosette. 

Your grand equipage serves to show 

The silks and diamonds which you wear; 
Rosette, Rosette, her cheeks aglow. 

Tripped by with roses in her hair. 
Her eyes, despite my jealous "Nay," 

Provoked a word from all we met; 
Ah, me ! if only I, to-day. 

Could love you as I loved Rosette. 

In J'^our boudoir, with satin lined. 
The mirrors show your smiling face; 

In her wee glass I used to find 
The image of a new-born Grace. 

168 



AND OTHER POEMS 



No curtains barred the morning ray, 
And stars peeped in when sun had set; 

Ah, me! if only I, to-day, 

Could love you as I loved Rosette. 

Your wit and fancy flash, until 

The poet's heart is somehow stirred; 
I do not blush to own it, still 

Rosette could scarcely read a word. 
Her simple speech sufficed alway 

To tell her love, and yet, and yet. 
Ah, me! if only I, to-day. 

Could love you as I loved Rosette. 

Her charms were less than yours, God wot. 

She may have loved me more, although 
I must confess her eyes had not 

The fire of passion yours can show; 
But then she had, I fain must say. 

My youth, which I perhaps regret; 
Ah, me ! if only I, to-day. 

Could love you as I loved Rosette, 



169 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



CARMEN 

(From the French of Theophile Gautier) 

DARK rmgs encircle her gypsy eyes, 
And her figure is scrawny and thin ; 

Her hair is black as the midnight skies. 
And the devil has tanned her skin. 

Men rave about her, but women swear 

She is ugly as ugly can be; 
They even hint in Toledo there 

That the bishop chants mass at her knee. 

Her piquant plainness may have, who knows ? 

A grain of salt from the self-same seas, 
Whence nude, erewhile, to the crest she rose 

A racy Venus to tempt and tease. 



ITO 



. JL*^ "■^ '■'"'""" \^ir^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 

THE KING HIMSELF FOREMOST 
OF ALL 

(From the German of N. v. Strachwitz) 

KING STYRB JORN sailed down to the Sastne 

strand; 
He swore he would seize on the Swedish land ; 
Then swords and shields on the deck were 

flung, 
And into the water the heroes sprung, 
The King himself foremost of all. 

King Styrbjorn said: "Lo! the vultures draw 

nigh. 
It is ours to fight, and never to fly ; 
That none be tempted hereafter to turn. 
Behind us to-day our ships we will burn ; 
The ship of the King first of all." 

King Styrbjorn cast first the flaming brand, 
Red gleamed the ocean and red the land ; 
And when the fire flickered and died at last, 
Each hero laid hold of his spear full fast, 
The King himself foremost of all. 



171 






THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



They met by Tyriswall, fierce was the fight, 
The day was stormy, but silent the night ; 
None turned to the ships, none turned to the 

coast, 
Down went the hero and down went the host, 
The King himself foremost of all. 



m 



AND OTHER POEMS 



FLAMINCA 

(From the German of Emanuel von Geibel) 

NO more her dark brown limbs are seen 
As in the dance they madly whirl ; 

No more she strikes the tambourine, 
Flaminca blithe, the Gypsy Girl, 

A scarlet fillet bound her hair, 
In silken shoes her twinkling feet ; 

But now she sleeps, the Wild Rose, where 
The tangled boughs above her meet. 

Bide not the hawthorn-tree beside! 

Give heed, ye lads, if ye are wise ! 
For flames leap forth, since she has died, 

From out the earth where now she lies. 

'Tis said her form sometimes appears 
When odors on the night air stir. 

And with her longing eyes she sears 
The heart of him who looks on her. 



173 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



REMEMBRANCE 

(From the German of Heine) 

WHAT wilt thou, mournful vision dear and 
olden ; 

I feel thy very breath and gaze on thee ; 
I am by thee with doleful eyes beholden ; 

I know thee, and alas, thou knowest me. 

I am a way-worn man, my limbs a- weary 

Have lost their strength, my heart is 
scorched and sere ; 
Care weighs me down, my days are dark and 
dreary ; 
It was not thus when first I found thee here. 

In haughty strength I left the home seclusion 
To tramp the wide world o'er, and would 
assault 

The gates celestial, in my mad delusion. 

And tear the very stars from Heaven's vault. 



174 




AND OTHER POEMS 



Frankfort doth foster fools and knaves, I know 
it, 
And yet she gave — for this I love her well — 
Many good Kaisers and our greatest poet ; 
And there I found my love where she did 
dwell. 

I strolled along the Ziel amid the bustle ; 

There was a fair, with all its fuss and feud ; 
The motley throng went by with rush and 
rustle. 

And I looked idly on in dreaming mood. 

I saw her there, with shy delighted wonder, 
And watched her swaying form that self- 
same hour ; 

Her happy eyes, the long dark lashes under. 
Attracted me with such unwonted power. 

Through street and market then I followed 
after, 
Until we reached a cottage by and by. 
The sweet one turned, and with a flash of 
laughter 
She slipped into the house, and so did I. 



175 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



The aunt was vile, would even sell for money 
This maiden flower that bloomed so sweetly 
there ; 

Although the child gave me herself, so sunny, 
Without a single sordid thought, I swear. 

I have met other women than the Muses, 

And know the varnished face, the artful sigh ; 

Hers was no breast to heave whene'er it chooses. 
And in her eyes, by Heaven, there was no lie. 

And she was fair, far fairer than is painted 
That foam-begotten Goddess of the sea; 

Perchance she was the being well-nigh sainted 
Who in my boyhood's dreams appeared to 
me. 

I knew it not and it was all unheeded, 

Some spell entranced me with, I know not 
what; 
Perchance the bliss I longed for and most 
needed 
Was in my arms, and yet I knew it not. 

And she was fair, far fairer in her anguish. 
When after three days' blissful dream I fain 

176 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Would leave the heart I rested on to languish, 
Because the old mood drove me forth again. 

With her dishevelled hair about her flying 

And mute and wild appeals, her hands she 
wrung ; 

Then at my feet she cast herself and, lying, 
Burst into tears as to my knees she clung. 

Ah God ! her blood, would I have seen her never, 
My spur had caught her hair upon the floor ; 

I tore myself away and lost forever 

My darling child, and never saw her more. 

The mood is gone, upon her face I ponder, 
That face, where'er I am, appears to me ; 

Poor child ! in what cold desert dost thou 
wander 
With want and misery — my gifts to thee.^^ 



177 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



THE MARCH OF THE NOMADS 

(Translated from the German of Herman von 

Lingg) 

The heath hes before me denuded of grass, 
And over the steppe flies the snow as I pass, 
And eaten with rust are the spears and the 
swords ; 
Here mj lance will I lift to heaven on high 
And call from the north and the south with a 
cry 
The tribes of the East, the wandering hordes. 

Ye hunters of wolves where the Ural peaks 

glow, 
Ye herders of flocks in Death's Valley below. 
Ye scouts of the desert, a terrible host. 
Ye boatmen who hail from the Caspian coast, 
Lift up your lances, your lances so bright. 
Your banners of conquest unfurl for the fight ! 

Now muster the horses and break down the 

tents, 
For the northern lights gleam and we must go 

hence ; 

178 



AND OTHER POEMS 



We will pass on our way to the zones of the 
west, 
Our watchword the cry of the bird on the wind, 
The sands of the desert are urging behind. 

We may not bide here and we never can rest. 

We care not like cravens to follow the plow, 
We have furrowed the earth with our spears 

until now ; 
A conquering people, a pitiless power, 
Like vultures and locusts we come to devour ; 
In the smoldering ruins where cities once stood 
We render to freedom a tribute of blood. 

And when we have conquered and garnered our 

gain 
And the foemen are chanting their dirge for 
the slain 
We mourn not in sorrow, we wail not in woe, 
Nor build we a tomb for the heroes that died. 
The snow it will cover, the night it will hide 
The sanctified horror of corpses below. 



179 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



Where flowers were once blooming now eddies 

the sand, 
The sea is now breaking where once there was 

land; 
Where then is there rest for the dead ones, 

I pray? 
They live in the runes and the songs of the 

race, 
They dwell in the glory of time and of space, 
And we are their envoys forever and aye. 



180 



AND OTHER POEMS 



DEDANS PARIS .. 

(clement marot, 1497-1544) 

li 

IN Paris there, brave city, where 

I wandered once, weighed down with care, 

Until I met, by chance, one day 

A bhthe Italian maid so gay 
With whom no maiden can compare. 

She hath a modest mien and air, 
Her truthful eyes are not a snare — 
Whatever others do or say 
- In Paris there. 

We sealed our friendship sweet and rare 
With just one guileless kiss, I swear; 

Her name I never will betray, 

Enough to know that she alway 
Is my fast friend, come foul or fair, 
In Paris there. 



181 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



LET THEM DREAM 

(From the German) 

I AND the ghost of midnight, side by side, 

Stalk up and down these silent streets at 
will; 
How short a time since here men laughed and 
cried — 

One little hour ago — now all is still. 
Erewhile joy vanished like a cast-ofF flower; 

The empty goblet lies beside the stream ; 
Pale sorrow hid away at twilight hour ; 

The world is tired, so let it, let it dream. 

My hate has ceased, my wrath has taken flight, 
As when at night the storm-clouds break 
awhile, 
The peaceful moon looks down with tender 
light 
And gilds the withered roses with her smile. 
I walk these silent streets with bated breath, 

I hold communion with myself ; it seems 
My soul would almost search the realm of 
death 
To solve the mystery of human dreams. 

182 



AND OTHER POEMS 



My shadow trails behind me like a thief — 

Before the gloomy prison bars I stand — 
Thy faithful son, In bitter, bitter grief, 

Atones his love for thee, O Fatherland ! 
He sleeps and dreams — what chains can bind 
him now? 

Dreams of a hamlet by the wooded stream ; 
Dreams that the victor's crown Is on his brow ; 

O God of Justice, let the captive dream ! 

Before me towers the lofty castle keep ; 

Between the purple curtains I can see 
The startled Caesar clutch his sword in sleep 

And shudder as he dreams of treachery. 
He mutters to himself, and shrinks with fright ; 

His pallid face Is plowed with many a seam ; 
A thousand steeds are saddled for his flight ; 

O God of Vengeance, let the despot dream ! 

The cottage by the brook, how small It seems ; 

Yet want and worth together share one bed. 
The Lord will let his vassal dream his dreams — 

Such fancies serve to calm his waking dread. 
When slumber's silken meshes are unfurled 

He sees his ample cornfields' golden gleam, 



183 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



His narrow homestead widens to a world ; 
O God of Mercy, let the poor man dream ! 

In yonder house, upon a bench of stone, 

A blessing will I crave and rest from care ; 
I love thee well, my child, though not alone — 

My heart with Freedom you must ever share. 
You dream of turtle-doves and butterflies. 

While I can only hear the eagle's scream ; 
Can only see my war-steed's flashing eyes ; 

O God, I pray thee, let my darling dream ! 

O stars, that from the clouds like fortune break I 

O night, that folds us in thy soft embrace ! 
Let not the sleeping world too soon awake, 

To gaze upon my grief-disfigured face. 
Not yet can baffled Liberty afl'ord 

To light her camp-fires by the day's broad 
beam. 
Lest tyranny again should whet her sword ; 

O God of Slumber, let the sleepers dream ! 



184 



AND OTHER POEMS 

FROM THE BARRICADES 

(After Heine) 

POETS, sleep and dream no more, 
Wake to deeds of high emprise. 
Strike the chords of lute and lyre 
Till they fill the soul with fire, 
Like the Marseillaise of yore. 

Pipe no more in accents weak 
To your lady's love lit eyes ; 
A la bayonet, the word. 
On the ramparts it is heard, 
Let the swords and daggers speak ! 

Suffer not your lute to trill 

Softly in idyllic sighs ; 

Be a trumpet in its call. 

Be a cannon charged with ball 

Peal and thunder, roar and kill. 

Peal and roar as days go by, 
Till the last oppressor dies ; 
And until the world is free, 
Let your song from henceforth be 
One exultant battle cry. 

185 



THE WOOING OF THE ROSE 



CHILDE HAROLD 

(From the German of Heine) 

NOW black and stark, a stately bark 
Bears calmly on with canvas spread; 

In silence all, around a pall. 

The watchers watch beside the dead. 

A poet dies, and calm he lies. 
His face uncovered to the sight ; 

His eyes of blue cerulean hue 
Fixed on the far celestial light. 

From out the deep, tones swell and sweep. 
Such as the morbid mermaids make ; 

With ceaseless surge, like solemn dirge. 
Against the bark the billows break. 



186 



INDEX 

PAGE 

Allegory, An 96 

Another Fool 70 

Art Eternal 50 

At Last at Rest 101 

Au Revoir 132 

Bereft 68 

Butterfly, The 66 

California 9 

Con Amore — Con Dolore 61 

Dawn on Mount Tamalpais 20 

De Profundis 94 

Death of Al Harith, The 149 

Death-Watch, The 67 

Derelict, The 25 

Dom Perignon 156 

Don Juan 13 

Dreyfus 64 

Drifting 71 

El Rio Sacramento 57 

El Salvador 34 

El Vaquero 19 

England at Bay 113 

Face, A 164 

Faith Il9 

Florence 33 

Forecast 73 

Four Score Years and Ten 8 

Gloaming, The 69 

Guido 31 

Har-Ma-Khu 76 

187 



j£3>-rr« 



INDEX 

PAGE 

Hulda 93 

Humming Bird, The 42 

Hungry Heart, The 49 

Iceberg, The , 54 

In Calm and Storm 24 

In Fields Not Far Away 21 

In The Sierras Ill 

In the Swim 127 

Jean 38 

Lady Jane . 82 

Long Tom 125 

Ma Pauvre Petite 77 

Mahatma's Rede, The 103 

Marie 107 

Memograph, A 87 

"Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin" 131 

Messiah, The 100 

Monograph, A 123 

Muse of Romance, The 26 

My Orient 48 

Neither Do I Condemn 97 

O Sly Bo-Peep 37 

OfF Cape St. Lucas 43 

Oft-Told Tale, An 90 

On the Heights 88 

Padre Kino 120 

Pax Vobiscum 41 

"Peace Be With You". 65 

Point Bonita ^ 22 

Poor Little Jo 72 

Red-Letter Day, A 134 

Reverie, A 15 

Rose and the Thorn, The . ;. . 122 

188 



INDEX 

PAGE 

San Carlos 44 

Schamyl's Defeat 109 

Shakespeare 75 

Summer Days 102 

Sutter's Fort 55 

Then and Now 86 

"Tins to Mend" 129 

To an Old Copy of Shakespeare 39 

To Raphael Weill 133 

To Sir Henry Irving 60 

To the Unknown God 46 

Types 11 

Unanswered Questions 45 

Victoria 115 

Vignettes 29 

Waiting 28 

What Matters it Where or When.? 117 

When Richard Lovelace Came to Woo . . 35 

Who Knows ? 52 

Wooing of the Rose, The 7 

TRANSLATIONS 

Alone 167 

Carmen 170 

Childe Harold 186 

Dedans Paris 181 

Flaminca 173 

From the Barricades 185 

King Himself Foremost of All, The 171 

Let Them Dream 182 

March of the Nomads, The 178 

Remembrance 174 

Rosette 168 

189 



OCT 19 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



OC^ 



-SQ 



113 



